


DEMON

by My_Bucky_My_Steve



Category: Evanstan - Fandom
Genre: Biblical References, Blood and Gore, Demonic Possession, Exorcisms, Explicit Language, Graphic Description of Corpses, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Physical Abuse, Satanic references, Sexual Content, explicit violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-05
Updated: 2018-01-16
Packaged: 2018-04-19 04:55:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 68,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4733480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Bucky_My_Steve/pseuds/My_Bucky_My_Steve
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Born and raised under the Catholic Church, Chris has always been strong in his faith.  Always looking to GOD for guidance and reassurance in the belief that what he has been called to do, is not only his life calling... but his rightful duty. Bestowed upon him by Elders themselves. This is what he was born for. He knows nothing else. Following in the footsteps of his father and his grandfather, The Church keeps their best Warrior Priest on a tight leash. They have too... But when unexplained murders begin to surface all around the world, the leash is let go... For now, the Priest goes into the ultimate battle with something he has never seen in his entire thirty years of walking this earth. Because now, its not only his soul he's fighting for... but the soul of the one who's captivated him...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Priest

**Author's Note:**

> Okay... So this is the first of three new fics that will be coming into rotation. Just several sentences to give you... an idea. This tale... is not for the faint of heart, I say that with DARK CAP and I'll say it here with this one. It's touching on very, very strong themes. Some of you may be uncomfortable with, some of you may not. Hence the tags. This is only the beginning. But keep in mind... if you begin to read it... what I ask is for you to have an open mind... really open mind. Because in the end of the day, even the most righteous man... has his Demons...

His feet pound the sodden ground faster and faster. Sliding down the mountain side, jumping over fallen tree limbs and shoving through brush, his ragged breath echoing in his ears as the torrential rain continues to pour down all around him. 

Making his way out of the woods, the piercing wind slams him with the stench of the creature. Their smell is undeniable. They reek of bile, sulfur and death. It repulses him down to his very core. Gripping a tree branch, he jumps off the trail and onto the dirt road. Glancing up he sees… _it._

Taking up chase again, he runs faster and pushes himself harder as he watches it run around the bend and disappear. Practically on its heels, he stops. 

Looking out in front of him, he stares towards the sleepy little town below. 

 _Fuck…_

Full on sprinting, his lungs constricting and expanding forcing much needed air into him, his throat burning and parched as he runs through the cobblestone streets. Cutting through side streets and back alleyways, he catches a hint of its rancid smell wafting through the air off to his left. 

Turning towards the row of dilapidated houses, he takes off running again as a sharp scream slices through the night. Instantly stopping, he hears another piercing howl coming from behind him, followed by the mournful cries of someone begging for help. 

Pushing open the flimsy wood door of a shack, he walks into a small room. Candles are scattered about and the minimal furnishings consist of three torn and worn out chairs, one dresser and a wooden table.

The woman screams and cries out as she grabs at the bloodied man lying on the dirt floor. Off to the left, an elderly woman is on her knees rocking back and forth, clutching a rosary in her hands as she looks up to a painting of ‘The Virgin Mary’. Several children huddle together whimpering and crying out “ _Papa, Papa_ …” 

The younger woman looks up at him, tears streaking her face, blood stains on her apron she whispers “Por favor, Padre, ayúdame a él... nos ayuda.…” _(Please Father, help him... help us.)_ Bowinging her head down, she leans on the man’s blood soaked chest. 

Walking up to her, he kneels down and places two fingers along the man’s jugular. Glancing up at the woman, he simply says “Esta muerto.” _(He’s dead.)_ Standing up, he takes a step away when the woman grabs at the man’s black pants. 

“Padre, ¿qué es eso? ¿Qué demonios era eso?” _(Father, what was that? What the hell was that?)_ Clutching at his pants, the woman is shaking horribly. 

Pulling her hands off his pants, he leans down close to the woman’s ear. His breathing slow enough to stop the pounding in his ears. “Un Demonio…” _(A Demon…)_ Looking away he ask “¿Por qué camino va?” _(Which way did it go?)_  

Pointing towards the back door, the woman stutters “A través del jardín, que se extendía a través del jardín Padre. _” (Through the garden, it ran through the garden Father.)_

Taking off again, he runs through the garden, catching _it_ in his peripherals he stops and watches as _it_ takes shelter in an abandoned building. Pushing through a hole in the barb wired fence that surrounds the building, he runs up the broken steps as he squeezes through the rusted metal doors. Looking around, he sees trash and broken down furnishing littered about. 

 _Typical… a drug house… a whore house…_

Stepping over worn out, pissed and blood stained mattresses, he looks around as the darkness engulfs him. _It’s_ stench is pulling him up, towards the third floor. 

Going to the stairs he watches his footing as he makes his way over broken, missing and crumbling metal stairs. The thunderstorm continues to rage on as the howling wind screeches from above. The holes in the roof giving way to the pounding rain making the stairs dangerously slippery. 

Shifting his eyes over the third floor railing, he stops on the last step as his eyes slowly adjust to the blackness all around. Looking left and then right down the long narrow corridors he clenches his jaw. Off to the right he hears a shuffle. The little hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. 

Sliding his fingers behind him, he glides the tips over the cold silver hilt of his dagger. A wicked smile curls his lips as he turns right and follows the sound. A flash of lightning instantly illuminating the hall as he catches the tail end of a shoe going around a corner. 

Picking up his speed, he stops and peers around the hall. Straight ahead he sees a door slamming shut, the wind forces it back open and slams it again, the echoing sound bouncing off the deteriorating walls. Pushing open the door, he walks into another room, except it’s not a room. It’s a massive partially enclosed roof. 

Exposed wiring, open duct channels, and jagged pipes jutting out from the floor, have him side stepping carefully. The floor is extremely weakened from years of torrential rains that are so frequent in this part of Mexico. 

Looking out towards the cloud cover night, he hears _it_ scuttle along the side wall. 

 _“Come out come out wherever you are…”_ The man taunts it. 

“You come here to die… _Padre?”_ It’s voice carried by the wind. Blanketing him from all sides. 

Turning towards the left, he knows that they are never where they seem to be. A slithering noise behind him, makes him shift his footing a bit. Keeping his face forward, his eyes dart to the left again as a low guttural growl instantly goes from left to right. 

“No… _Actually,_ I didn’t. I came here… to kill you.” Responding with a smile on his face, the man slowly reaches behind him, the feel of the hilt making his heart race. 

Giggling, _it_ hisses out at the man like a snake. “And the vessel? Isn’t _your_ kind forbidden to kill the vessel?” 

“ _My kind?_ Yes… Me?...” Instantly turning around, the man reaches out and wraps his hand around _its_ neck. His fingers sinking into its swollen neck. Shoving it backwards hard, the thing lands with a loud thud as it crashes against metal pilings. Scrambling quickly, it tries to attack the man as it hisses and slices through the air. Spinning around, the man kicks it square in the chest as it slams back against the metal pilings again. 

Crawling up the side of the wall, it hisses and snaps its neck all the way around, facing the man. Spewing blood at the man it lunges at him. Dodging it, he dives on the floor and rolls over as it quickly crawls on top of him. 

The face, barely resembling that of its human host. Its eyes are yellow, its skin ripped open and bloated, black blood oozing down its tattered clothes. Dried and cracked lips, skin split, it opens its mouth and bares its jagged, broken teeth. The smell of pure evil washing over the man as it lulls its tongue and licks up his cassock. Long gnarled fingers grazing down the man’s face. 

Grimacing, the man twist his face away as he glares at its vacant eyes. “ _Fuck…_ You’re one ugly _muthafucker_ aren’t you?” 

“What? You don’t think I’m… pretty… _Padre?”_ It cackles out, lifting its gnarled hand from the man’s face, it’s claws curling, it swoops down and misses the man’s face as he kicks the creature off of him. 

Standing up faster than the man can pull his dagger out, it charges at the man knocking him down flat on his back again as it steps over him trying to make a run for the door. Hooking his arm around its ankle, he yanks hard as the thing falls flat on its face. 

Getting on his knees quickly, the man goes behind it and puts it in a choke hold. Kicking its legs out, it spits and sputters out a string of curses at him. “Fuck you! Fuck me! Fuck you! Fuck me! Save the vessel! Save the vessel! Save the vessel _Padre!”_  

“Too late—“ The man growls out between gritted teeth. Pulling out his dagger he presses it under the chin of this thing. “—the vessel died the minute you entered his body.” 

Squirming and damning the man, its breath reeking of nothing but pure death it continues to tease him. “You’re forbidden _Padre…_ those are your laws, your rules.” 

Tightening the hold he has on its neck. He presses the tip of the dagger harder into its bloated flesh. Huffing out a breath, the man whispers “Not my laws… not my… rules…” Thrusting his dagger deep in its chin, he buries it to the hilt, its black blood flows down the man’s hand. 

Screeching loudly, it squirms and fidgets wildly as it thrashes about, deformed hands coming up to pull on the man’s arms. The fight is fleeting and useless at best. 

Twisting the dagger, he pulls it out and stabs right through its chest. Forcing the dagger all the way in, he breaks through rib bone as he pierces the heart. Hearing a whistled breath, the man watches as a wisp of grey smoke slips out of its mouth and dissipates. 

Pulling the dagger out, the man kneels down over the body and wraps his rosary around his hand. “In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti Amen” Reciting the last rights like he’s down a hundred times over, he makes the sign of the cross on the dead man’s forehead. Kissing his rosary, he pulls out a small bottle from inside his cassock, he opens it and sprays the body with drops of holy water. 

Wiping his blade on the body, the man stands and digs in his pocket. Pulling out a pack of cigarettes and his lighter, he sparks one up and inhales deeply. Turning around he walks out of the room, down the hallway, down the stairs and out the front door. 

The thunderstorm still raging on, he walks slowly inhaling and exhaling the fresh mountain rain as he makes his way out of the town.

                                                                                                                         ************************************** 

It’s unusually warm for March in New York City as the sun starts to set. Walking through the side entrance on 5th Avenue, he hears the bells begin to toll. The scent of lemon oil instantly hitting his senses as he inhales deeply. That smell alone, brings so many memories flooding back. 

Not all good... 

Walking through the corridors of St. Patrick’s Cathedral, he avoids the auditorium. His footsteps clicking and echoing on the solid polished wood floors he stuffs his hands in his jeans pockets. Glancing around he notices the restoration is almost completed. The hand carved stone statues depicting the final supper, the birth of Jesus Christ, and his resurrection have been meticulously repaired down to the last detail. 

Opening a solid wood door off to his right, he walks up two flights of carpeted stairs. The banister gleaming as it sucks in the lemon oil. To be honest it’s quiet nauseating at times for him. 

Walking all the way to the end of the hall, he opens the last door to the left. Stepping in, he closes the door behind him. Quietly. Dipping his finger in the chalice of holy water, he makes the sign of the cross on himself. It’s a small darkened room, six pews on both sides. Soft and subtle lighting illuminate and cast a depressing glow against the dark cherry wood. 

Red carpeting leading to the podium on a small stage faces him. And behind the stage, an altar littered with dozens of lit candles and silver crosses stretch from one side to the other. And at its center, an ornate painting of St. Michael lifting his sword to slay the _beast._

Stepping up to the altar, he grabs a wick and lights a candle. Kneeling down, he whispers a silent prayer. 

“Christopher…” A voice whispers out from behind him. 

Looking up, he sees the older man dressed in his clerical collar, black long sleeve button down shirt, black pressed slacks and of course, black loafers. 

Getting on his feet, he walks over to him, taking his withered hand in his, he kisses the older man’s hand. 

“Stop that Christopher.” The Father chuckles. “That’s an old custom. Only practiced in the Vatican. And… the last time I check, we are _not_ them.” 

Smiling, Chris helps the older man to sit down. Sitting next to him with a grin he laughs and shakes his head. “My grandfather, _God_ rest his soul, would skin my hide if he knew I didn’t show you the _utmost_ respect every time I was graced with your presence Father Bryan.” 

Chuckling now, Father Bryan shakes an old bony finger at Chris. “Your grandfather—“ Looking up at the altar he smiles as he reminisces of his best childhood friend. “—was a good man Christopher. You remind me _so_ much of him. He was set in his ways… no matter what I’d try to tell him differently, he always did it his way. And it worked for him. Like I said. You remind me of him. He was the best at what he did… that is… until _you._ ” 

Looking away from Father Bryan, Chris swallows hard. He thinks of his grandfather often, more so than his own father. “It’s an honor to be remembered like him, Father. I thank you for that.” 

Patting Chris hands, Father Bryan clutches his heart and laughs heartedly “I remember, you must’ve been…” Tapping his finger to the side of his mouth, he squints his eyes as he looks at the large wooden crucifix hanging on the wall. “Five years old. That’s right you were five. That first winter in Joplin. Robert and I were back at the Rectory, we were tearing down some old sheetrock when he received a call from Sister Mary Rose.” 

“ _Oh_ no…” Putting his head down Chris huffs out a laugh as he recalls that incident. More so than any of the others. 

Patting Chris on the shoulder, Father Bryan continues down old memory lane. “Wait a minute, wait a minute.” He says. “So we drove out there and _ooohh boy_ was Robert livid. Apparently, Mr. Christopher Robert Evans, decided that it would be funny, to add an eleventh commandment to the caulk board.” 

“ _No no no no...”_ Squeezing his eyes shut, Chris stifles a laugh now, just like he did back then. 

“You remember what you wrote?” Father Bryan shifts his frail frame to face Chris now. 

Nodding his head slowly, Chris looks up at him, huffing out through his nose. “ _Mmm hm…”_

Clearing his throat, Father Bryan recites the now infamous eleventh commandment that is still talked about in Our Sisters of the Holy Trinity Academy. _“Thou shalt remove the stick_ _wedged up Sister Mary Rose’s ass.”_ Both men stare at each other and for the next couple of minutes the small room is filled with nothing but their boisterous laughter. “I tell you son, my jaw dropped when she showed your grandfather what you had written. _Ohhh…_ he saw red. I think I saw the Devil in his eyes. And I knew, once he pulled that chair and yelled out ‘Christopher!’ you were in for some serious trouble. He pulled your pants down, bent you over his knee and took that leather belt to your butt, in front of the entire kindergarten class. Including Sister Mary Rose.” 

“Oh _gawd.”_ Chris leans back on the pew, yeah he definitely remembers that. “In my defense, she really did have a stick up her ass.” Laughing again, Chris loves hearing these stories, makes him feel like his grandfather is still here with him. 

“That night, after he put you down to sleep, we sat out back, as we often did, sipping on our _one_ beer, and he said ‘Bryan, that boy, he’s gonna be the death of me.’ I grabbed him by his shoulder and I distinctly said ‘No he’s not. He’s giving you your purpose in life back.’ And just like that we tapped our bottles and never spoke about that again.” 

Pressing his lips together, Chris knows that his grandfather was a man of few words. He meant what he said and he said what he meant. No one ever crossed his path, and if they did, well… 

“How are you Father Bryan?” He ask, pulling himself out of his own thoughts. Changing the subject. 

“ _Oh…_ well… you know, I’m eighty four years old. Things don’t work like they use to in this old body. But… I’m still here, still fighting the good fight. So I say my prayers in the morning, give thanks to our Savior whom has blessed me with another glorious day. I say my prayers at night, asking Our Lord for his forgiveness if I have veered away from his teachings, and… everything else, I take with a grain of salt.” Glancing towards the stained glass window, Father Bryan sighs heavily. “Enough about this old coot—“ He says “—tell me. Mexico?” 

Straightening, he sits up firm and rigid. He knows that what he’s going to say isn’t going to go over well with Father Bryan, it never does. “Mexico… was just like I expected. Exactly, how I expected.” 

Glancing down at his fragile hands he ask “He couldn’t be… _saved?_ ” 

“No.” 

“Were you sure? Were you positive?” Father Bryan ask, his deep green eyes searching him for an answer. 

Nodding his head once, Chris looks up to the cross. He doesn’t know why he automatically seeks it out… perhaps, he’s looking for something. Forgiveness? Absolution? Salvation? Whatever it is, it never seems to _find_ him. 

“Your casualties are rising Christopher. Before, there were very few, that didn’t make it. I’m not naïve, I know that innocent souls will suffer and pay the ultimate price… until… their final release. However, now it seems even if there’s a slim chance that the soul can be saved, you forgo that for the kill.” Father Bryan furrows his brows, steepling his fingers together as he stares at Chris. 

Standing up, Chris walks over to the altar, pressing his open palms flat on the table he looks at the dozens of burning candles. “Father Bryan, with all due respect, you sit here, behind solid wood doors and brass locks, your bible opened to the same passage for as long as I’ve known you—“ Chris turns around and looks at the old man sitting and staring up at him. 

“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for art thou with me, thy rod and thy staff they comfort me… Psalms 23:4.” Chris recites this passage as if he were reciting his mantra. “I’ve walked and done battle in that valley of death. You can’t imagine the horrors I’ve seen. What those things leave in their wake. There’s nothing up here—“ Pointing to his temple, he grits his teeth “And nothing in here.” Pointing to his heart. “They’re soulless, vile creatures. They infest their human host, spreading their sickness, it consumes them completely until there’s no remnant of what was once… a person.” 

Slowly getting to his feet, Father Bryan glares at Chris. “So you decide now? Is that right Christopher? Are you… _GOD_ now?” 

Breathing deeply, Chris walks up to Father Bryan, his deep blue eyes glancing away quickly. His mind flashing images of all his kills. Looking back at Father Bryan, Chris eyes darken. “No—“ His voice cold and hard, he glances up at the cross and almost instantly back to the old man “—I’m not _GOD…_ I’m just a man who cleans up his shit.” 

Gasping, Father Bryan stutter’s in a breath as his eyes widen. Reaching into his pocket… he clutches his rosary beads. 

“Is that so?” Father Bryan ask as he walks up to the podium, gripping it tightly, the pain from his arthritis making him wince slightly. 

“Yes…” Chris watches the old man as he shifts his weight from one leg to the other. The pain of his illness clearly visible. “You should know, you… and the elders—“ Walking away from him, Chris makes his way down the pews. “—I get the cases the _others_ won’t touch.” 

“Then I suggest you check your email Christopher. There is a case… that I _specifically_ requested you on.” 

Huffing out through his nose, he puts his hands on his waist, but doesn’t turn around. “Don’t I feel _privileged._ ” The condescending tone dripping from his lips. 

“You should, I wouldn’t put no other _Priest_ on it.” 

Shaking his head, Chris grips the door handle. 

“There’s a pattern…” Father Bryan calls out to him. His voice ringing loud making Chris stop cold in his tracks. “There’s… a… pattern.” He whispers out, knowing all too well he heard him. “Please…” He pauses. 

Without saying a word, Chris opens the door, goes down the stairs, and out to the cool evening breeze.

 

****************************************

 

Drying off, he hangs the towel behind the door as he walks out the bathroom. Walking into his bedroom, he grabs a pair of boxers out of his top dresser drawer, slipping them on, he picks up his cell phone from the nightstand as he walks out into the living room. 

It’s four in the morning and his laptop’s been open on the coffee table since he walked in two hours ago. Pulling a water bottle out of the fridge he walks back to the couch as he hears the _ping_ signaling several new emails. Sitting down slowly, he scrolls until he finds the one that’s been pulling at him since earlier. 

 _There’s a pattern…_

His hearts pounding, his breath suddenly rushing in and out of him. He doesn’t know why he’s feeling like this. He’s been on so many cases before and when he’s sent the initial file, it does the exact opposite of what he’s feeling now. This is… different. He heard it in Father Bryan’s tone. 

Clicking on the email, he reads a note from Father Bryan. 

*The first video was taken five months ago. Muscotah, Kansas. An abandoned church five miles outside the town limits.* 

Opening the link, he watches as the video comes to life. Several police officers and other suits scattered about, yellow caution tape blocking off the stage. People talking in the background while the flashing of a camera signals pictures are being taken. The video zooms in to four men on the stage, each of them wearing suits and latex gloves. 

Two men kneeling down. 

The video pans out as two of the suits move off to the side… 

Chris eyes widen… 

Two bodies lay on the stage, naked. One female, one male. Their bodies positioned in the form of a cross. Railroad spikes formed into makeshift crosses stabbed into their palms, feet and eyes. Blood oozing out of their ears, mouths and nose. The camera zooms in again, a close up to their bodies. 

Their necks are slit from ear to ear. The heads practically decapitated. The camera zooms out, swooping and taking a panoramic image of the entire scene. A circle of some sort of black dust surrounds the bodies. Symbols are carved into their flesh, blood dripping steadily from their open lacerations as it slides down their flesh, saturating the wooden floorboards. 

Hitting the pause button, Chris freezes the frame as he hits the print button on his laptop. Going back he freezes several more frames and does the same. Standing up quickly he grabs the photos off the printer. Opening the desk drawer, he pulls out a magnifying glass. Throwing the photos on the coffee table, he sits back down. Sliding the first one in front of him, he rolls the magnifying glass over it. 

The symbols. He’s never seen them before. Ever. 

Sliding another photo over, he takes a closer look at the bodies. The blood flowing freely. Chris knows that _that_ means that from the time these people were killed, to when the police showed up it was less than two hours. The crosses, inverted and stabbed into them. 

Ritualistic. But… 

Sliding another photo, he looks at the circle of black dust. It’s not dirt, or soil. The more organic matter soil contains the darker its color. But this… this isn’t soil. 

 _What the fuck is this?..._

Leaning back, Chris spreads all the photos out in front of him. Glancing from one to another and then another and then back again, he realizes there’s no… candles. Or blood writing on the walls. 

Killings such as these, follow a pattern. Candles throughout the scene, the smell of sulfur that still lingers in the air, bowls filled with human organs. Hearts, eyes, ears, intestines, lungs, whatever the recipe calls for. Last but not least, blood writings on the walls, and or floor. 

And the blood… the blood is the telltale. They use the blood of the victims for conjuring. Conjuring… _whatever._ The blood splatter is a dead giveaway. People, playing around with things they don’t know or understand, he’s seen it hundreds of times. Always the same. 

The victim’s blood dripping out of a cup or bowl as it hits the floor, stepping in it, the killer always leaves a track. That’s where _it_ makes the mistake. Like a puzzle, Chris can always put the pieces together. 

But this… this is different. 

There’s no blood splatter. There’s no blood writing on the walls. There’s no bowls or cups laying around. No candles… there’s no… theatrics to it. 

It’s too… neat… clean. 

The symbols are carved into the victims. Only the victims. Nowhere else. The inverted crosses stabbed into their eyes… Chris has seen crosses used like this before, but never in the eyes. The ones stabbed into their hands and feet, symbolize the spikes used to nail Jesus to the cross. 

But why… inverted? 

 _What are you trying to tell me?_

Closing the link, Chris taps on another email from Father Bryan. This one also has a message from him. 

* _Rathcormac, Cork County, Ireland. Three months ago. Another abandoned Catholic Church, eight miles outside of the town limits.*_

Opening the attachment, a video feed springs to life. The first thing that Chris notices is the body of a naked male, suspended in air by cable wires. His arms spread out, both hands have the same inverted crosses made out of railroad spikes stabbed into his open palms. His feet are crossed and another cross stabbed into him. The same with his eyes. 

The cable wires… 

It’s a cross… 

He’s being nailed to a cross… 

Hitting the print button several times, Chris gets up and practically yanks the photos out of the printer again. Pushing the others to the side, he plays the video as he stares at the pictures. His body has the same exact symbols carved into his flesh just like the two in Kansas. Glancing down on the floor below the man, he sees the same black dirt forming a circle around him. 

No blood writings, no cups, no bowls, no candles… nothing. 

Chris freezes the frame and zooms in as he stares intently. His fingers tapping his lips as his leg shakes up and down. There’s a cable wire under the man’s neck. His neck is also slit from ear to ear. 

 _I’m listening… what the hell are you trying to tell me…_

This… they’re connected. 

Standing up Chris grabs a cigarette from the pack in the drawer, he doesn’t smoke often, but every now and then he needs one to take the edge off. Right now, he could probably smoke an entire pack. 

Pacing back and forth, he inhales deeply, sucking in that much needed nicotine. Tapping his finger to his temple he ask out loud “What are you telling me? _Huh?_ What am I missing? It’s there… the fuck am I missing!” 

Going back to the email, he clicks on another the last one from Father Bryan. Opening it, it reads… 

* _Petrila, Hunedoara County, Romania… Twenty six hours ago… A rundown barn converted into a makeshift church… The villagers, up until three years ago, would hold mass there…*_

Opening up the link and taking one last drag, he crushes his cigarette in the ashtray. The video images springing to life. The camera pans out as it sweeps from left to right. Rain puddles litter the dirt floors everywhere. The decaying wooden beams are weathered and crack. Several wooden benches strewn around, some broken, some turned over others shoved up into a corner. A large rusted metal table with a broken statue of St. Michael stands in the center, a podium of some sorts. 

Broken beer bottles and some trash gets kicked around as the local law, fucks up yet another crime scene. Chris can hear them speaking, barking out orders, the flashing of cameras going off again. 

The cameraman begins his climb up steep and rotted wooden stairs to what seems as the loft area. 

“Fuck!!! Stop shaking the camera dammit!” Chris snaps out. His agitation getting the best of him. 

Watching as the camera finally stops shaking, the man cries out “Dragă Dumnezeu! _” (Dear God!)_

Chris jaw drops. 

Staring at the image on his screen, his brows crease as his heartbeat accelerates. 

“Dragă Dumnezeu! _”_ The cameraman cries out again. 

Another male, naked. Railroad spikes stabbed into his eyes, palms and feet. Same pattern. 

Except… 

He’s nailed upside down to an inverted cross. The blood dripping up his body. The exact symbols carved into his flesh, just like the others. His throat slit from ear to ear… just like the others. 

A ring of black dirt surrounds the body. 

No cups, no bowls, no blood anywhere else, but in the circle. 

Except… 

A crown of thorns adorns the man’s head. 

Freezing the frame again, Chris looks closely at the his neck. His head flopped to a contorted position. Bone and tissue fully exposed. The fact that he’s upside down, Chris is still in awe that his head hasn’t completely detached from the rest of him. 

Hitting the play button Chris continues to watch as the cameraman rambles on. 

_“Am tratata cu indiferenta’t fie aici…”_

_(We shouldn’t be here)_

_“Acest loc este blestemat…”_

_(This place is cursed)_

_“Poate't simţi??”_

_(Can’t you feel it?)_

_“Răul…”_

_(Evil)_

_“El’s aici…”_

_(He’s here)_

_“Opriţi cu prosti superstiţii Sergi!”_

_(Stop it with your stupid superstitions Sergi!)_ A different voice yells out of the cameraman’s view. 

_“Trebuie să mă ascultaţi!”_

_(You need to listen to me!)_  

_“Avem nevoie să treceţi!”_

_(We need to go!)_

_“Ca's Sergi destul!i!”_

_(That’s enough Sergi!)_ The same voice yells out again. 

_“Luati-l de aici! Luati-l de aici!”_

_(Get him out of here! Get him out of here now!)_ The man yells out an order.

_“Vom sta in casa de la Diavol…”_

_(We stand in the house of the Devil)_

Coming into view finally, the man shouting at the cameraman, snatches the video recorder out of his hand, as another man grabs him by the arm and leads him out of the loft. 

_“Dumnezeu cu mila de sufletele noastre…”_

_(May God have mercy on our souls)_

The microphone catching the man’s trembling voice as he’s led away. 

_“Acesta’s un Demon… el trece printre noi…”_

_(It’s a Demon… he walk’s among us…)_

Chris breath hitches. Pushing the playback button he listens again. 

 _“Acesta’s un Demon… el trece printre noi…”_

Pounding the print button hard several times, Chris snatches the photos from the coffee table, quickly grabbing the ones off the printer he spreads them out on his dining table. Grabbing the magnifying glass he slides three photos in front of him. 

The first image of the man and woman in Muscotah. He rolls the magnifying glass over their necks… 

The blood isn’t red… it’s black… 

Picking up the next photo, the man in Ireland, Chris focuses on the cable wire under the man’s neck. The blood _oozing_ from the slit. 

It’s black… 

Tossing the photo he grabs the recent one from Romania. Looking at it closer, he sees it immediately. The blood from their carved flesh is what threw him off. There’s no denying what he’s seeing. 

His blood is black as night. 

This wasn’t an exorcism gone wrong. Chris has seen his fair share of those. None of the signs point to that anyway. This wasn’t an attempt to help these people. There’s no presence of that in any of these scenes. This was a slow torture. Whoever or whomever did this… was enjoying it. 

But why? 

Churches. All the killings were done in churches. Each person positioned as if they were being crucified, they _were_ being crucified. The crown of thorns. The last killing, he mocked him in the form of Christ.

Glancing down at the photos again, he focuses on the railroad spikes. Iron. 

Iron bounds the body to earth. Eyes, hands and feet. Why? Why would the bodies need binding? 

Dropping the photo on the table, Chris runs his hand through his hair. “Christ…” He breathes out. Taking two steps back, he connects the dots clear as day. 

That’s why the need for the iron spikes, they were binding them inside their host. Their _vessel…_

They were keeping them… _in…_

These people weren’t human when they were killed… 

They were… 

Demons… 

Snapping out of his thoughts, Chris runs to his bedroom. Practically ripping the closet door off its hinges, he pulls out a backpack and tosses it on his bed. Unzipping it, he pulls opens his top drawer and grabs several items of clothing. Going back to the closet, he quickly grabs more, tossing it in the bag. Digging at the back of his closet, he pulls a smaller bag. 

He’ll need what’s in the bag. 

Quickly dressing, Chris grabs the bag and slides his hand under his nightstand. Tucking _it_ away in the inside liner of his jacket, he slides the photos in an envelope and puts them in his satchel as he picks it up and slings it across his chest. Locking the door behind him, Chris takes the stairs three by three. Finally reaching outside, he waves down a cab and hops in. 

“Where to pal?” The cabbie ask as he begins to drive. 

Looking out the window, the streetlamps casting an eerie glow, Chris takes a deep breath and slowly exhales. 

The feeling of trepidation washing over him like a slow wave. No matter how many _cases_ he’s been on, he’s never felt like this before. 

“Hey pal… where to?” The cabbie calls out again. 

“LaGuardia…” He says without looking away from the window. 

Pulling his cell from his jacket, he sends Father Bryan a quick text, almost immediately, he receives one back. 

 **_*Christopher?! Are you sure?*_ **

**_*Yes… I’m sure*_ **

**_*Where? Where are you going?*_ **

Glancing out the window, Chris reaches for the small silver cross hanging from his neck. 

 **_*Christopher! Are you there?! Christopher! Where are you going?!*_ **

The man’s voice echoing in his ears… 

 _Acesta’s un Demon… el trece printre noi…_

Chris text only one simple word.

**_*Romania*_ **

                                                                                                   *******************************************

 

With an eight hour time difference and landing nearly ten hours later, Chris knows time is of the essence. He can’t afford to lose anymore. Making his way hastily out of Sibiu International, it’s midnight and there’s a cold chill in the air as he heads out into the street. 

Looking around Chris doesn’t see any taxis. It’s eerily quiet, as the last of the passengers depart to waiting friends and family. Lifting the collar of his black leather jacket tighter around his neck, with his bags in his hands, Chris crosses the street and begins walking towards the parking lot. 

“Ma scuzati Domnule?” _(Excuse me Sir?)_ A voice comes from Chris right. “Aveţi nevoie de o plimbare pe undeva?” ( _Do you need a ride somewhere?)_  

Glancing over his shoulder, Chris sees a man in his early sixties. Short and stout with a full head of white hair and wire rim glasses. The elderly man points to an old beat up rust colored station wagon. “Domnule?” _(Sir?)_ The man ask again. 

Chris eyes the car and then the man. Shrugging his shoulders he says “Sigur.” _(Sure.)_  

Smiling big as he flashes Chris a row of discolored and decaying teeth, the man nods quickly and stammers out “Vă rog, vă rog acest mod. _(Please please this way)_ Va pot ajuta cu saci de dvs?” _(May I help you with your bags?)_

“Nr.” _(No.)_ Chris snaps at the elderly man, making him pause momentarily. Lifting his hands, up the older man pats himself on the chest and nods his head quickly. 

“Ne pare rău, rău…” _(Sorry, sorry…)_ The old man stammers out “Vă rog Domnule, am vrut sa supar pe nimeni, nici respect” _(Please Sir, I meant no harm, no disrespect.)_  

Staring at him, Chris is on edge. He’s wasting fucking time. Shaking his head, he nods at the car. “Am nevoie de a ajunge la Petrila, poti sa ma duci acolo?” _(I need to get to Petrila, can you take me there?)_

Taking two steps back the old man makes the sign of the cross on himself as he whispers “În numele Tatălui, Fiul şi Duhul Sfânt” ( _In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost.)_ Gripping his jacket, the man looks at Chris up and down. Even in the pale light of the half moon, Chris can see the old man lost all the color in his face. 

“Există o problemă?” _(Is there a problem?)_ Staring at the man intently, Chris ask him again, this time his voice carries a darker tone to it. “Există o problemă?” 

Chris watches as the old man glances away, hearing him swallow hard, he shakes his head and speaks, but when he does speak, his words are so low… barely audible. “Petrila… este blestemat…” _(Petrila… is cursed…)_ Digging in his pocket, he pulls out a rosary. His hand trembling, he clutches it to his heart as he looks up at Chris. 

“Ce?!” _(What?!)_ Chris grabs the old man by the arm, feeling his brittle bones under the weight of his grip he shakes him “Ce?!” he snaps. His patience is fucking wearing thin. 

Tears swimming in his bloodshot eyes the old man cries out “Umbla acolo! Demonul plimbări Petrila noaptea!” _(He walks there!.. The Demon walks Petrila at night)_  

A trace of a smile curls Chris lips. Letting go of the old man’s arm, he straightens out his jacket. Patting him on his shoulder, Chris hand tightens his hold on him as he leans in “Bun…” _(Good…)_ He says. “Cauză care's unde vă're tinand de mine…” _(Cause that’s where you’re taking me…)_

_******************************************_

 

Sitting in the man’s car, Chris pulls his cell out and checks his messages. Several from Father Bryan, four from Anthony, three from Scarlett and two from Jeremy. He’ll respond to them later. Putting his cell back in his inside pocket, he glances out the dirty window. 

“Sunteţi American? Nu?” _(You are American? No?)_ The old man ask, as he keeps his eyes on the dark country road. 

“Da…” _(Yes…)_ Chris replies. His eyes still locked on the woods beyond the confines of the car. It’s here… he… _feels it…_

“Petrila… is no good. Is very bad place. No go, Sir.” The old man’s voice tremble’s with a heavy Romanian accent as he fights to find the right words in English. 

Facing him now, Chris ask “So… you speak English?” 

Nodding, he glances at Chris, his bony hands begin to shake as he’s holding the steering wheel, making the car swerve a bit. 

Grabbing the wheel quickly, Chris straightens it out. “Hey, hey, hey I got it, I got it. Just keep your eyes on the road, okay?” Clasping the man on his shoulder, Chris gives him a little shake. “What’s your name?” he ask. 

Swallowing hard, the old man’s throat is dry and raspy. “I—Ioan. Am'm rău” _(I’m sorry)_  

“Ioan? Nice to meet you.” Chris nods his head. “So tell me Ioan, why is Petrila a bad place?” 

Shaking his head, Ioan grips the wheel tighter. Chris can practically see the old man’s fear. His brows creased, his dry lips trembling, sweat beating down his temple. 

Looking up at the road sign it reads ‘Petrila 3.2 kilometri’. “Pull over.” Chris orders him. 

“Ce?” _(What?)_ The old man ask. 

“Stop the car.” Chris orders. 

Pulling over to the side of the road, the old man stares out the windshield. Daring not to glance at the American. 

“Thank you Ioan. But this is where we part.” Opening the car door, Chris steps out into the cold drizzling night, the rain misting him instantly.

Opening the back door, he pulls out his backpack as he throws it on and grabs his satchel.

Closing the door he looks up and sees Ioan walking towards him. His hands are up out in front of him, as if he’s trying to ward Chris off or stop him. The look of shear dread on his face.

“Domnule, vă rugăm să vă rugăm să vă don't doriţi să fie aici noaptea. Nu este sigur. Vă rugăm, vă rugăm să se întoarcă în maşină. Am'll te ia. Vă iau în Petrila” _(Sir please, please you don’t want to be out here at night. It’s not safe. Please, please get back in the car. I’ll take you. I’ll take you into Petrila.”_

Chris stares at the old man. Walking around the back of the car, Chris notices the man has tears pooling in his eyes. “Acesta's bine. Asculta-ma. Am'll walk. Vă veţi întoarce acasă. Multumesc.” _(It’s okay. Listen to me. I’ll walk the rest of the way. You get back home. Thank you.)_

Walking away Chris, pulls his collar up tighter around his neck. The rain turns into sleet as it softly pellets his jacket, chilling him to the bone. 

“Pentru a merge la Petrila este de a curţii de moarte. Ai're căutarea pentru ea nu't? Ai're duce dupa el. Demonul?” _(To go to Petrila is to court death. You’re looking for it aren’t you? You’re going after it. The Demon?)_  

Turning slightly Chris looks at him. 

“Nu există's fost un alt omor. Ultima noapte. Aceeasi biserica. Dumnezeu a parasit ca oras. Poate't vezi. El a tras de tine aici. Ea te cunoaşte're care vine. Ai're va muri.” _(There’s been another murder. Last night. The same church. God has forsaken that town. Can’t you see it? It pulled you here. It knows your coming. You’re going to die)_ Quickly walking up to Chris, Ioan grabs at his jacket and tries to pull him back towards the car. “Please… please Sir. Don’t go.” 

“Who was killed?” Chris pulls the old man’s hands from his jacket. “Who was killed?!” 

“Ah—a woman.” He stutters out. 

“Can you drive me to the town limits? You don’t have to go in. After that you turn around and you never come back here. You understand?” 

Nodding his head, Ioan walks back to the car quickly, as Chris gets back in. Putting the car in gear, the old man ask “Who are you?” 

Pulling out a cigarette, Chris sparks it up and inhales deeply as he rolls down the window a bit. Exhaling, the rushing wind tingling his face, he doesn’t answer the old man’s question, but instead, he ask his own. 

“So… this woman. Tell me… how was she murdered?”

 

****************************************

 

On the old man’s insistence, he drops Chris off at the only motel in town. Walking in, he notices there’s no one at the front desk. Glancing around the lobby, it’s sparsely decorated. If you can call one small couch, three wooden chairs, one end table and a fake plant full of cobwebs decoration, then yes… it’s decorated. 

Va pot ajuta? _(Can I help you?)_  

Glancing back at the desk, Chris sees a middle aged man. Looking at his hand, he notice’s he’s gripping the handle of a metal bat. The old man wasn’t kidding when he said the people live in fear here. 

“Uşor, ai castigat't nevoie de ca.” _(Easy, you won’t be needing that)_ Chris nods towards the bat in his hand. “Am'm doar cautam o camera, pentru câteva zile. Nu există's nici un semn exterior. Aveti locuri vacante?” _(I’m just looking for a room, for a couple of days. There’s no sign outside. Do you have any vacancies?)_

“Aceasta este Petrila. Nimeni nu vine la Petrila.” _(This is Petrila. No one comes to Petrila)_ Waving at the key board behind him he says “Alegeţi. Acestea're toate vacant.” _(_ _Take your pick. They’re all vacant.)_

Looking out the window, Chris picks the last room on the left. He picked it for one reason. It’s the closet to the road that leads out of town.

Grabbing the key, Chris tosses three twenty dollar bills on the counter. Walking out the door, the night air chills him again. This time, straight to his bones. The bitter cold gripping and biting at him. 

Walking across the small courtyard, he looks at the road beyond. The road he’ll be travelling come sun up. Ioan told him that was the road that led to the abandoned church. 

Opening the door, he switches on the light. Setting his bags down on the bed, he walks back out the room and grabs a newspaper from the dispenser. Reading the headline, he grits his jaw. 

 **_*O altă crimă la vechea biserica de pe Dealul Capela de abandonate. Politia nu au inca o conductoare şi au executat un sat wide curand. (Another murder at the old abandoned church on Chapel Hill. The police still have no leads and have executed a village wide curfew.)*_ ** ****

Gripping the newspaper tighter, he begins to slowly walk back to his room, suddenly stopping at the doorway, he feels the tiny little hairs on the back of his neck stand on edge. 

A coldness creeping over him, closing in on him, he feels as if he’s being squeezed. His hand begins to tremble as the grip he has on the newspaper rattles it against the wind. Standing there, he knows he needs to move, he needs to get into the room. Staring at his bag, he needs what’s in it. And he needs it now. 

Trying to take a step forward, his legs feel as if they’re dead weight. He tries to move them, but he can’t, he’s trying to breathe… but he can’t. An invisible vise is tightening its hold around his neck squeezing his windpipe. He slowly closes his eyes and whispers a silent prayer. And just as quickly, whatever it was that gripped him, it vanished. 

Stumbling into the room, Chris gasps out as he clutches his throat. Coughing and sucking in that precious air, his lungs filling frantically as he tries to control his breathing while the scorching heat in his throat slowly subsides. Turning around, he walks to the doorway, but stops short. 

Looking out towards the empty courtyard, he shifts his eyes all around. Trying to focus on everything and anything, his hearts pounding against his chest. His ragged breath still ringing in his ears, he wipes his clammy hands on his jeans. 

“I know you’re out there—“ He whispers. “I know you can hear me… is that the best you can do? Parlor tricks? And here I thought… you were going to be a challenge. Know this, I’m going to find you… and when I do… I’m gonna send you back to fuckin’ hell where you belong.” 

Turning his back towards the courtyard, Chris shuts the door close. Pressing his hands against the door, he closes his eyes again. Shaking his head, he grabs his bag and unzips it. Pulling out the smaller bag, he finds what he was looking for. 

Pulling the dagger out, he holds it in his palm, gripping the hilt, twisting the cold silver in his hand brings a smile to his face. Placing it back in its holster, he slides it under the pillow. Unlacing his boots, he takes them off and shuts off the bedside lamp. 

Getting on his knees, he quickly says a prayer. Climbing on the bed, he lays down facing the ceiling, his eyes wide open. 

 _It’s out there… It knows I’m here…_

He called it parlor tricks… but the reality of it is, Chris has _never ever_ felt anything like that in his entire life. 

The coldness… 

The choking… 

The chill… 

Tracing his leather chain, his fingertips glide down to a small silver cross. Wrapping his hand around it, he brings it to his lips and gently kisses it. Trying to fight his sleep, he forces his eyes to stay open, but it’s useless. Exhaustion claiming him, wrapping itself around him, it pulls him down deeper into its darkness… 

The last thing he feels as his body shudders out a tremble, is a coldness slowly slithering over him…

 

********************************************

 

Walking into the small restaurant, he picks a booth, not too far off from the entrance or the other patrons, but enough to keep a distance. Glancing around he notices several people gathered in booths and others, sitting at tables, not too engrossed in their own conversations to notice the stranger in _their town._

Looking at every single one of them, he can tell he’s not welcomed here. 

 _Too fuckin’ bad… I’m starving…_

“Eşti gata să comandaţi domnule?” _(Are you ready to order Sir?)_

Keeping his eyes on the menu, he says “Da, am'd ca ouăle, cartofii prăjiţi şi casa de fructe. Şi cafea, multă cafea.” _(Yes, I’d like the scrambled eggs, fries and the house fruit. And coffee, plenty of coffee.)_

“Laptele şi zahărul cu cafea... Domnule?” _(Milk and sugar with your coffee… Sir?)_ The waitress ask, definitely not hiding her distaste for him. 

Finally looking up at her, he arches his eyebrow “Nr. Nr. de lapte. Cafea. Oh, don't prin orice sansa de au ketchup nu?” _(No… no milk… creamer. Oh you don’t by any chance have ketchup do you?)_  

As if she was just slapped in the face, the waitress turns on her heel and tells him she’ll be back with his coffee and walks away, but not before muttering “Ketchup? Dar ce crede ca acest lucru este un MCDONALD, Americanii dracului!” _(Ketchup? What does he think this is a McDonalds!? Damn Americans!)_

“Am'll ia unele dacă aveţi unele... Multumesc.” _(I’ll take some if you have some… Thank you.)_ He calls out after her. Shaking his head, he pulls the road map out from inside his jacket. Opening it, he spreads it out on the table. Staring at it, he knows the abandoned church is only several miles out of town. 

The local authorities pretty much trumped through all the evidence. But what _he’s_ looking for, they wouldn’t notice anyway. They don’t know what he knows, the less they know the better. 

Coming back, the waitress pours his coffee and sets his plates in front of him. Asking if he needed anything else, she excuses herself. 

“No ketchup huh?” Sipping on his coffee, he digs in. Pulling the newspaper article out from his pocket he reads it again, maybe he missed something. Hearing the jangle of the bells above the entrance he looks up as he sees several men walk in frantic. 

“Ea's lipsă! Daciana! Ea's lipsă! Ea nu înţelegeau't veni acasa! Gavril numit spital. Au spus ca ea sa fi plecat mai devreme, atunci când ea a sfirsit de cuplare. Acesta a luat ea! Demonul lua si ea! In ultimele doua zile, el era acţionează în mod diferit, ea a fost... indepartate el. Am're culegerea o căutare partid impreuna! Avem nevoie pentru a găsi ei!” _(She's missing! Daciana! She's missing! She didn't come home last night! Gavril called the hospital. They said she had left earlier, when her shift ended. It took her! The Demon took her! For the past couple of days, he said she was acting differently, she was... distant he said. We're gathering a search party together! We need to find her!)_ The old man’s practically yelling at the customers, grabbing at someone he must know, he keeps repeating the same thing over and over again.

 The Demon… The Demon took her… 

Sipping on his coffee, Chris listens intently as the entire restaurant begins to chime in on what’s happening. Some asking if the police have been notified, others saying if _The_ _Demon_ took her, don’t bother trying to find her… she’s as good as dead. 

“Biserica veche? Crezi ca's o vom duce acolo?” _(The old church? You think it’s going to take her there?)_ The waitress ask. 

“Nr. politia sunt acolo chiar acum îl ardea de sol.” _(No. The police are out there right now burning it to the ground.)_ A younger man blurts out. 

Closing his map quickly and shoving it in his pocket, Chris pulls out some money and throws it on the table. Snatching up his jacket, he pushes past the customers gathered around the counter, shoving the door open, he climbs into the rental car he picked up earlier that morning. 

Peeling out of the parking lot, he heads out of town… towards the church.

 

******************************************

 

Speeding down the road, the cloud of dirt trailing him, he can see the black smoke rising to the heavens from his standpoint. “Fuck!” He slams his hands on the steering wheel. Slamming on the gas, he’s starting to red-line as the gears shift hard. Pulling off to the side of the road. He jumps out of the car and runs into a neighboring field. Running through brush, jumping over broken down tree limbs, his breath is ragged as the cold air, tightens around his lungs. 

Hearing voices, he stops and slinks down. Hiding behind a tree he pulls out small binoculars from his jacket. Looking at what remains of the church, the flames still licking high into the sky, he hears voices close by. 

His hand trembles slightly as a chill creeps down his spine. 

“Odată ce focul este în afara, am'll au buldozer si plugul prin restul ca's.” _(Once the fire is out, we’ll have the bulldozer come in and plow through the rest that’s still standing)_

“Şi?... Femeia locale? Soţul ei spun's ea nu înţelegeau't veni acasa. El spune's ea's lipseşte.” _(And?... The local woman? Her husband says she didn’t come home last night. He says she’s missing)_

“Lipsesc?... Ea's probabil beţiv afemeiat în jurul cu următoarea man. Până când vom avea un corp în mâinile noastre, am câştigat't nimeni de schimb de oamenii mei căutarea pentru ea. I don't au puterea de om.” _(Missing?... She's probably whoring around with the next man. Until we have a body on our hands, I won't spare any one of my men looking for her. I don't have the man power.)_

“Locotenentul... ce dacă ... ce dacă ceea ce spune oraseanul... este adevarat? Ce dacă acesta este de fapt un demon.... Ce dacă Petrila este blestemat?” _(Lieutenant... what if... what if what the townspeople are saying... is true? What if it... really is a Demon. What if Petrila is damned?)_

“Suficient! Nu te prea! Ignorant sireturi cu ridicolul lor superstiţii! Aceasta nu este decit o adunatura de dependenti de droguri secte satanice!” _(Enough! Not you too! Ignorant townspeople with their ridiculous superstitions! This is nothing but a bunch of drug addict Satan worshippers!)_

“Dar... Domnule...” _(But… Sir…)_

“Dar nimic! Scăpaţi-o! În loc de hrănire aceste prost neroada de notiunile de a ta, ar trebui să fie concentrarea pe cele doua crime care sunt în mâinile noastre şi acum.. Acum, don't stiu cat de mult mai pot păstra naiba declarat meu... dar dacă această femeie, arată până mort? Apoi am un criminal în serie în curtea...” _(But nothing! Drop it! Instead of feeding these stupid idiotic notions of yours, you should be focusing on the two murders that are on our hands right now. Now, I don't know how much longer I can keep the damn reporters off my back... but if this woman, shows up dead? Then we have a serial killer in our backyard...)_

“Am'm rubrica înapoi în staţie. Acest loc de bandă şi lăsaţi doi ofiteri aici de cart.” _(I'm heading back to the station. Tape this place off and leave two officers here on watch.)_

“Da domnule Locotenent...” _(Yes… Lieutenant…)_

Walking towards a waiting Jeep, the Lieutenant lights up a cigarette and stares off into the fire. Chris watches him intently as he climbs in and pulls out onto the dirt road. Glancing back at the other man, he grits his jaw. “ _Fuckin’_ idiots!” He curses. 

Getting up, Chris runs back to the car, the rain beginning to come down hard and steady now, he quickly makes it back as he peels off again back towards town. 

His mind is spinning and whirling, the pistons firing on all eight cylinders. 

This isn’t the work of crazed drug addicts, or a serial killer, or even occultists. Chris knows exactly what this is… And it’s not going to stop. What is it after? The abandoned church meant something… it was a connection. A connection to what? The man from the video was a local man. Why kill him there? Why? Only five miles from where he lived. 

The woman. A second murder at the same church. She was local too. She lived only three miles from there. 

And now… this other woman. Another local. She’s still alive. 

Chris can feel it… 

 _It_ hasn’t killed her… yet. 

The church… the church was _It’s…_  

“ _FUCK!!!”_ Slamming on the breaks the car comes to a screeching halt. Throwing open the door, Chris begins to pace back and forth. The wet gravel crunching under his boots. Pulling up his collar, he fist his hands to his mouth. “Think… think… c’mon… its right fuckin’ in front of you…” 

It was a local person, always. Not some stranger from the other side of the world to be dragged across the continents to be killed. The victim was known. 

Chris was wrong. This _is_ about the theatrics… 

The church, the church was _Its_ platform… _It_ made a show out of the murders. The authorities wouldn’t see it that way. But _It_ would. 

The police burned down _Its_ stage. 

“Jesus Christ…” 

The chill he felt in the fields… 

 _It_ was there… 

 _It_ was watching… 

Quickly pulling out the map from his jacket again, he spreads it out on the hood of the car. Running his fingers down the map he stops at the nearest town. Pulling out his cell, he punches information. 

“Primaria Jiet vă rugăm.” _(Jiet City Hall please)_

“Primaria. _”_ (City Hall) 

“Da, puteţi spune dacă sunt abandonate biserici din Jiet? Sau în cadrul său oraşului limitele?” _(Yes, can you tell me if there are any abandoned churches in Jiet? Or within its City limits?)_ Chris’s heart is pounding in his chest, his grip tightening on his cell. 

“Pardon? Bisericile abandonate domnule?” _(Excuse me? Abandoned churches Sir?)_ The female voice on the other end of the line ask. 

“Da! Bisericile abandonate! Există în Jiet. Vă rugăm să vă trebuie să ştiu!” _(Yes! Abandoned churches! Are there any in Jiet. Please I need to know!)_ Chris patient is completely gone, his free hand clenching into a fist over and over again. 

“Nu domnule, don't.” _(No Sir, we don’t have any)_

Sighing, Chris closes his eyes and rubs his palm down his scruff. “Multumesc...” _(Thank you…)_ Pulling the phone from his ear, his finger slides down to disconnect the call when the lady calls out to him “Domnule? Domnule?” _(Sir? Sir?)_

“Da?” _(Yes?)_ Chris presses the phone back to his ear. The rain making it slip against his cheek. 

“Am'm de rau, am amintit, noi don't au abandonat biserici, dar a condamnat manastire. Doar în afara Jiet. Pe de alta parte a rutei 7A. Dar's nu este în siguranţă acolo domnule. Acesta's o capcana de moarte. Ca's de ce sa de condamnat. Am don't au fondurile pentru a îl loviţi în jos.” _(I'm sorry, I just remembered, we don't have any abandoned churches, but we do have a condemned monastery. It’s just outside of Jiet. On the other side of route 7A. But it's not safe there Sir. It's a death trap. That's why it’s condemned. We don't have the funds to knock it down.)_  

His breath hitches as he swallows back hard. Glancing down at the map, he reads route 7A. The rain dripping down his face, droplets running through his scruff, wetting his parted lips. 

“Domnule?” _(Sir?)_ The woman’s voice pulling Chris back. “Eşti acolo?” _(Are you there?)_  

“Multumesc...” _(Thank you…)_ Hanging up the call, Chris shoves his phone back in his pocket. 

A loud thunderclap rattles the windows of the car, as he looks up to the darkened sky. 

“Gotcha…” He whispers…

 

*******************************************

 

Sitting in the car, he stares out the window towards the monastery. The moonless sky offering nothing but blackness to light his way. The pounding rain bouncing off the windshield obscuring his view to the three story monstrosity. 

And that’s exactly what it is. St. Martin De Porres. 

A massive structure, many of the windows are either windowless, or have cracked and broken serrated panes. It’s U shape undeniably making a bold statement. The monastery itself sits on a mountain top. 

The slope of the road leading to it gradually climbing, Chris felt the oxygen growing thinner and thinner as he breathed. Briefly reading up on its history, he tried finding any connection between the murders, the churches and now… a monastery. 

The frustration weighing heavy on him, he punches the steering wheel. 

“Dammit!” Carding his fingers through his stubble, the only thing he could come up with is that they’re both places of religious worship. 

What does _It_ want? Why in churches… and now… a monastery. 

 _What are you trying to tell me?_

A lightning bolt instantly streaks across the sky, illuminating the decaying structure. Chris jolts up as he stares off towards the building.

Something… 

Something catches his eyes… 

Another bolt of lightning flashes just above a steeple as a loud thunderclap roars and rattles at his windshield. 

Stepping out of the car. Chris slowly begins to walk. His footsteps treading over broken branches and fallen leaves, a slow chill begins to trace its icy fingertips down his spine as his entire body shivers. 

Stopping immediately, he realizes why… why _It_ choose the churches. This monastery… 

 _It’s_ sacrilegious… 

 _It’s_ unholy… 

 _It’s desecrating…_

Breathing broken through his nose, the rush of cold air burning through his lungs, scorching his throat, Chris now knows why… 

 _It’s_ mocking… God… 

Snapping his head up, a loud howling scream pierces through the night. Chris is jolted back to reality as his adrenaline kicks in. Taking off running, he jumps over fallen branches and shoves through brush. The thin branches snapping back and cutting him across the face like a hot wire making him wince at the sting. 

Keeping his eyes on the monastery, he pushes himself to run faster. 

Another scream stops him dead in his tracks. 

But this one is… louder… broken… pained almost. 

And he knows… it’s her… the missing woman. 

Full on sprinting now, Chris reaches the barbed wire fence that boarders the property. Pushing through the hole, he has the monastery in his sights when he hears it again. It’s the most agonizing cry he’s ever heard in his entire life.

His eyes immediately focus on the second floor… 

 _It’s_ there… 

He can feel it. Frantically scanning the second floor, Chris catches movement on the south end from his peripheral. It’s subtle, but he saw… _It._  

Fast, barely a blur… 

Taking the stone stairs three at a time, he comes face to face with a massive wrought iron door. Glancing down, he notices a large iron padlock, the lock from the door. Kneeling, he picks it up with both hands. It’s a solid hundred pound lock at minimum. But that’s not what catches his attention. What _does_ catch his attention, is that the lock itself wasn’t pried open. It was ripped open. 

 _Ripped open…_

Throwing it hard, it slams against the concrete walkway, pieces of cement and mortar flying everywhere, his anger boiling to the surface, he pushes open both doors. The screeching sound of iron scraping off the bottom of the door against the rotted wooden floor boards rings in his ears. 

Stepping in, his footsteps crunching on broken glass and rock, his eyes scanning and looking around quickly, he tries to get his bearings. Taking one step forward, he stops. His breath hitching as he desperately clutches at his chest. The tightening he felt from the night before, once again wrapping its icy tentacles around his lungs. The iron clad grip squeezing the last bit of breath out of him. 

Dropping to his knees he reaches out with one hand, palm open, slamming it against the broken floorboard. Clutching at his neck he struggles to breathe, the crushing pressure in his throat has his mouth filling up with blood. 

His blood… 

The veins in his neck are bulging out, sweat dripping down his brow, Chris entire body is trembling. Glancing up to the second floor, Chris hears another howl, this time, its shriek reverberating off the crumbling rock walls. 

Dropping now on all fours, the pain in his chest intensifying as a wave of lightheadedness and nausea continues to rake all over him. Turning on his back, he collapses completely on the cold floor. Squeezing his eyes shut, he silently begs for strength to break this darkness that has fallen over him. Clenching his jaw, through huffed breaths, he recites a prayer as he reaches under his collar and grips his cross. 

 _“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I fear no evil, for thou art with me, thy rod and thy staff comfort me…”_

And just like it did when he stood outside his motel room, the coldness that swept over him slowly slinks back and dissipated. 

Chris greedily gulps in some precious air, he turns on his side as he coughs up the blood that was lodged in his throat. Wiping his mouth with the back of his fingerless black leather gloves, spittle and blood streaking his lips and chin, he spits out more blood as he slowly stands. 

“You _sonofabitch_ … same _fuckin’_ trick huh? Alright… let’s play…” Chris whispers. 

Taking in his surroundings, he can see he’s in the main hall from the entrance. Straight ahead, there’s nothing but darkness. Nothing. Glancing off to the sides, he can see several doors, all open. Walking into the one on the left, he can see at one point it must have been some sort of office. A metal desk strewn about, papers scattered everywhere, lamps shoved in corners. The smell of wood rot invading his nostrils. Peeling paint and broken sheetrock everywhere. Backing out of there, Chris notices murals along the entrance walls. 

Several different scenes depicting stories from the bible. 

Jesus Christ walking through Jerusalem carrying his cross… being nailed to the cross. 

His burial… and his resurrection… 

The same peeling paint, the smell of wood rot utterly engulfing this place. 

Shaking his head, he’s not here for a damn tour. He’s here for… _It._

Glancing at the floor, even in the darkness, Chris hears more than see’s the crumbled pieces of sheetrock and cement chips vibrating and bouncing as the entire building begins to quake and rattle loudly. 

The metal stairs screech and scrap as they shake and tremble. Dodging the beams falling from the ceiling, Chris runs to the stairs as the woman’s screams pierce through the darkness. 

Gripping the hand rail, Chris hoist himself up as he carefully climbs the rusted and deteriorated stairs. The quaking intensifying with such veracity, it brings down the wall attached to the stairs. Taking them three by three, he leaps and grabs at the banister on the landing as the stairs collapse and disappear down to the trembling earth below. 

Breathing in hard, he looks down, the dust rising as it infiltrates his lungs. Pulling himself up, he looks back down. “Won’t be leaving that way I guess.” He says to himself. 

Looking both ways down the pitch black halls, he decides to go left. His first thought was go right… but his instinct told him otherwise. And something Chris has always done, is listen to his instinct. 

Closing his eyes, he listens… 

Breathing… 

He can hear… breathing… 

A deafening wail shrieks through the halls as it slowly dies out in an agonizing whimper. Running now, Chris hears it again as _she_ sobs loudly. 

 _It’s her… it’s the missing woman…_

With only his sense of hearing to guide him to her, he turns left, then right. Her cries leading him deeper and deeper into the monastery. Pushing open a wide metal door, he hears her again, this time screaming for help. Running up another set of stairs, he pushes faster and faster trucking through and breaking down a solid wood door. 

Stumbling into a massive room, he looks up and the first thing he notices is that the entire south wall is gone. The rain pounding and drenching him as it slicks down his cassock. His hair matted and dripping from the rain as droplets slide down his parted lips. 

Scanning his surroundings quickly, Chris moves slowly about the room. It’s some sort of… prayer hall. Or at least at one time it was. Whatever furniture was left is just scattered everywhere, the sickening stench of urine clinging to it like a magnet. 

A ten foot cross made out of solid oak hangs by cable wires from a heating duct in the roof. Screeching as it sways back and forth by the howling wind, he can clearly hear the tension on the wires as their stretched to capacity. 

A soft whine off to his right catches his attention, glancing up he sees… her. 

The woman… 

She’s tied to a wheelchair. 

Running up to her, Chris gets a better look. Her hands and ankles are tied to the chair by chicken wire. The wire cutting into her flesh as her blood seeps through her open skin. She’s wearing a tattered dirty white nightgown. 

Her face is drenched in tears and sweat, her dark hair filthy and greasy as it sticks to her flushed cheeks. A blood soaked rag tied around her face and shoved into her mouth. 

Yelling muffled into the rag, the woman pulls against her restraints, the wire cutting in deeper and deeper into her swollen flesh. Tears springing down her face, she yells out again… muffled. 

Pulling out his dagger, Chris goes to cut the wire, but… 

Muffled… 

“How were you able to scream? _Hm?”_  

Slowly dropping his head, he moves closer to get a closer look at the woman. 

Instantly stopping, he feels… _It…_

Behind him… 

He can feel… _It_

 _It’s_ cold breath against his neck. Making the little hairs stand on high alert… 

Chris heart is pounding rapidly in his chest, his throat slowly closing in on him. 

He can’t move, his body shuddering from the frigid grip seeping into his bones. 

Closing his eyes again, he tries to pray… but he can’t… he forgot how. The words escaping him as if they never existed. 

He tries to speak… but his voice is gone. 

A hushed hiss whispered in his ear sends Chris frantically looking around, reaching for his dagger, he’s shoved backwards with such force the wind is knocked out of him as he falls flat on his back. Coughing and rolling onto his side, he’s literally lifted ten feet off the floor. 

Chris is suspended in mid-air. His arms are pinned to his sides as his sweat soaks right through his collar. The veins in his neck are bulging and straining from his attempts to break this hold that’s gripped him. His body gradually beginning to sway back and forth… groaning out from the pain in his ribs, the swaying picks up speed as he’s spun around faster and faster, the hem of his cassock making a macabre windmill. 

Stopping just as quickly, Chris is flung off the third floor like a rag doll. His body slamming hard against a wooden piling, he drops down to the sodden earth with a deafening thud. 

The air completely punched out of his lungs… 

The unrelenting thunderstorm raging on outside… 

The pain in his head has him disoriented… 

Pellets of rain sliding down his face, mixing with the blood seeping from his lips… 

He slowly glances up… 

He sees… 

A shadow… 

A wisp of black smoke… 

Slowly emerging and taking form… 

Chris jaw goes slack, he can’t move, he can’t breathe… his own heartbeat pounding in his ears… 

His eyes slowly dragging up the form as if _his_ eyes are making this… this… thing manifest… 

Black boots… 

His eyes dragging further up, black jeans… 

Long black jacket… 

Chris doesn’t realize, he’s pushed himself onto his knees… his arms hanging limply against his thighs… 

Staring… 

Walking slowly, the rest of _It_ comes to focus… 

Turning and finally facing Chris… _It_ comes into full view… 

 _It’s_ hair is soaked from the rain as it streaks down his… face… 

Thick lashes fluttering against the misting of the rain...

Lips so pink and moistened wet, slightly parted… 

Smirking… 

 _Oh God… It’s… eyes…_

_It’s_ eyes… black as night… 

Walking to the edge, _It_ takes a step forward off the landing. _It’s_ hands reaching out to his sides, he slowly glides down. His blackened eyes keeping the older man locked in place. 

Gently landing, _It_ cocks his head to the left, and as if all time immediately ceased to exist, they stare at each other. 

Piercing blue eyes staring into cold black eyes… 

Cold black eyes staring into piercing blue eyes… 

Chris tries to get up, but he can’t. The feeling of being held down by weights is overpowering him. Staring at _It…_ he takes him in. 

His eyes slide up and down his body. He’s not big, by no means. He’s smaller than Chris. A lot smaller. Five nine, five ten, and that’s pushing his height. Weight? A hundred sixty if that. His face... he’s so…

 _Christ!_ He’s young. 

He’s a fucking kid. He can’t be any more than nineteen, twenty tops. Chris immediately pulling at the normal possession MO’s. The first thing he notices is that, this… _It…_ doesn’t smell. On the contrary, there’s something about his scent that’s making Chris dizzy, it’s almost… intoxicating, heady.                            

Following _It_ as he moves around him, he notices his skin, not yellowish or bruised, it’s… unblemished. Flawless… Not a tear, swollen nor bloated. Glancing at his hands, their smooth and the skin fresh and supple… young. Staring back up to his face… Chris breath is completely gone. 

 _It_ stops directly in front of Chris. Kneeling down now, both men are face to face within inches of each other. Chris looks down as _It_ looks up at him. His black eyes now soaking the older man in. _It’s_ tip of his tongue slowly licking his lips as a smile curls his pink lips. 

Chris breath hitches as a small moan catches in his throat. Watching _It_ lick his lips, he can tell his mouth is nothing like the demons he’s fought before. No serrated teeth, nor decaying stench. 

His mouth is so… 

Licking his _own_ lips, Chris doesn’t realize he’s staring at this creature in front of him. He can’t tear his eyes off of him. Just as the creature can’t tear his eyes away from him either. 

 _Fuck… this thing… this creature… whatever the fuck it is… he’s… he’s…_

Chris has never seen anything like him in his entire life. Tearing his eyes away finally, he clenches down on his jaw. This thing in front of him, this is the cause of all the deaths. This _thing_ is what he felt outside his motel room, this _thing_ is what he felt in the woods. This _thing_ is what he felt downstairs. This _thing_ is what’s gripped him and choked him. 

Facing _It,_ Chris eyes harden and darken. This vile creature in front of him is responsible for all the murders, he knows it and feels it like the blood pulsing through his veins. 

And he’s going to kill it. This is why he came here, this is what he does. 

A shy smile creeps across his lips as he stares at the older man on his knees. Bringing his finger up to the man’s lips, he slowly shakes his head… no.

“Şi cine? Cine poate fi tu?” _(And who? Who may you be?)_ The boy ask. His voice hums, melodic like music in the older man’s ears. 

Chris sucks in a breath finally. His voice… _Fuck_ _…_

Clenching his fist, Chris stares into the boys vacant eyes. And when he speaks, the coldness in his voice is unrecognizable. Even to himself. “Ai don't trebuie să ştiu cine sunt eu. Tot ce trebuie sa stii ... este ca eu've ajuns sa te omoare.” _(You don't need to know who I am. All you need to know... is that I've come a long way to kill you.)_ Chris glares into those black eyes. 

Giggling so childlike, _It s_ hakes his finger at Chris. “Apoi călătoria a fost futile bătrân. Pentru că vezi tu, cel care este o să mor aici in seara asta este ... tu. Cu toate acestea, deoarece've întreruptă de ceva foarte important ca am nevoie de a face---" _(Then your trip was futile old man. Because you see, the one who is going to die here tonight is... you. However, since you've interrupted _something very important__ _that I need to do---)_ Clasping his hands together and looking away, his lips pressing together as he licks them again, a wicked smile slides across his mouth. “Puteţi fi martor. Puteţi fi audienţa mea. Oh cum fac dragoste punerea pe un spectacol.” _(You can be witness. You can be my audience. Oh how I do love putting on a show.)_

Glancing away from the boy, Chris now knows, he confirmed it. 

His eyes quickly darting back to him, Chris leans in closer to the creature. His face a mere inch away from the boy. His eyes drag down his face only to stop at his parted lips. “Tu ai fost... vizitau't? Kansas, Irlanda şi aici... Petrila. Tu ai fost.” _(It was you... wasn't it? Kansas, Ireland and right here... Petrila. It was you.)_ Chris words are hushed and whispered, barely loud enough over the howling wind. 

Inhaling deeply, his eyes flutter close as he giggles sweetly. But there’s nothing sweet about him. His giggle only making Chris blood run cold through out his veins. “Kansas? Ai fost ma de urmărire haven't? Spune-mi ... de ce nu înţelegeau't vă opri pe mine in Irlanda? De ce acum? Aici in Romania?” _(Kansas? You have been tracking me haven't you? Tell me... why didn't you stop me in Ireland? Why now? Here in Romania?)_

Standing up now, the boy flicks his hand in the air, yanking Chris onto his feet, his head snapping back as he yelps in pain. The soles of his boots barely touching the ground as he continues to struggle against the invisible grip wrapping around his throat. Choking, Chris coughs up spittle and blood from his mouth.

Rising up to the older man’s height, the boy places his hand on his face as he exposes his neck. His clerical collar now clearly visible. Staring at it, the boy begins to tremble with anger, clenching his jaw. “Spune-mi Preot ... ai venit aici pentru a muri?” _(Tell me Priest… did you come here to die?)_ Hooking his finger under Chris collar, he pulls him closer to him.

His lips ghosting Chris’s.

“Eu stiu ce esti. Ai're un războinic Preot. Am've auzit de genul tau. Ar trebui să mă simt privilegiat să've face această călătorie lungă doar pentru a încerca şi a opri pe mine?” _(I know what you are. You're a Warrior Priest. I've heard of your kind. Should I feel privileged that you've made this long journey just to try and stop me?)_

Staring into those hauntingly black eyes, Chris feels nothing but evil coming from the boy. His muscles strain against the iron clad hold he has on him. The more he fights the harder he tightens his hold on him. His hands flexing into fist, all Chris wants to do is slice this creature’s throat from ear to ear just like he did those people.

Breathing broken through his nose, Chris snaps out “I don't da o dracu daca simti privilegiat sau nu! Acei oameni ai ucis... au fost nevinovati.” _(I don't give a fuck if you feel privileged or not! Those people you killed... they were innocent.)_

Ripping the collar clean off, Chris is pulled forward as he’s thrown against the far wall. Slamming hard, his back shooting spikes of pain straight up his spine, he rolls onto his stomach as he groans out.

Dragging himself on his stomach, his fingers dig into the rain soaked earth as he tries to pull himself away from the creature.

Gripping Chris shoulders, he flings him on his back effortlessly. Yelling out in pain Chris quickly reaches for his dagger. Unsheathing it, he lifts his hand as the blade gleams against a lightning strike.

Bringing it down hard, ready to bury it to the hilt in the boy’s chest, the dagger is immediately flung from his hand. Craning his neck, he watches in horror as it flies through the air, only to be impaled in a cross beam with such force that it splits the ten ft. beam in half.

“Tsk tsk tsk…” Clicking his tongue, the boy shakes his head slowly. Climbing on top of the Priest, straddling him, he grabs his cassock and jerks him up. The tip of their noses grazing each other as they stare into one another’s eyes. Leaning in, he can smell the cigarette still lingering on the older man’s breath.

“Nevinovat?!... Care? Ei? Aveţi? Indraznesti sa-mi vorbesti despre inocenta? Dacă ucizi în numele dumneavoastră de Dumnezeu şi apoi rotiţi în jurul, ca un sobolan si cersesc iertãtorule! Rog pentru iertarea? Iartă-mă tată pentru am pacatuit.” _(Innocent?!... Who? Them? You? You dare speak to me about innocence? When you kill in the name of your GOD and then turn around, like a rat and beg for absolution. Beg for his forgiveness? Forgive me Father for I have sinned.)_ Dragging his eyes down the older man’s body and back up again, he stares into his eyes as he leans into his ear and whispers “Stiu eu ce am... Am'm un criminal... Am'm un ucigaş... I don't ascunde în spatele un colier şi o numim credinţă. Dar ai...'re ipocrit.” _(I know what I am... I'm a murderer... I'm a killer... I don't hide behind a collar and call it faith. But you... you're a hypocrite.)_

“Să te ia dracu!” _(Fuck you!)_ Chris spits out.

Letting the older man go, the boy stands and takes several steps away. The rain drenching him completely as the wind continues to howl. Turning his back on him he glances over his shoulder, licking his lips and smirking he murmurs “Limbă... Preot.” _(Language… Priest.)_

Scrambling to his knees quickly, Chris stands and lunges at the boy, his hands clutching at nothing but a gush of wind and black smoke. A cold rush of air passes right through him making his skin breakout in goosebumps, whirling around, frantically, he looks for the boy.

“ _Preot_ …” _(Priest…)_ He taunts.

Staring up at the third floor landing, Chris gasp as he sees the boy griping the woman by her hair. Her arms flailing everywhere, she begs for help. Begs for _God_ to save her. Begs for Chris to save her. Watching helplessly, Chris makes a move towards the crumbling cement stairs.

“Ce aţi face dacă am scapat-o? Ai încerca şi salva pe ea? Sau ai venit după mine?” _(What would you do if I dropped her? Would you try and save her? Or would you come after me?)_ Smirking at the older man, his lips moist and glistening from the rain streaking down his face he says “Cine veţi alege? Poftim Preot? Ea?... Sau de mine? Deciziile... deciziile...” _(Who will you choose? Huh Priest? Her?... Or me? Decisions… decisions…)_

The boy takes another couple of steps closer to ledge, dragging the woman by her hair with him. Her hands pulling and clawing at his arm, desperately trying to free herself. “Staţi în continuare!” _(Stand still!)_ He growls out.

“Nu! Sa se duca! Haide ... sa se duca. Ştiţi asta's-ma vrei... Haide ai pic de nenorocită!” _(No! Let her go! Come on... let her go. You know it's me you want... Come on you little sonofabitch!)_ Chris is past seeing red, he’s fucking pissed! He needs to get to her and get to her now. Every second he waste is a second more that little fucker has him by the balls.

Gritting his jaw, he begins to run up the crumbling steps.

“Mişcare greşită.” _(Wrong move.)_ Throwing the woman, her screams echo in Chris ears, shaking him to the bone.

“Nu!” Chris yells out.

Lightning streaking across the black sky as one hits so close that the thunderclap shakes and rattles the beams, shaking them from the inside out. Illuminating the room as Chris watches, helpless… the woman’s scream getting caught in her throat as she lands hard on the saturated dirt. Her body bouncing several times from the impact before rolling over onto her stomach.

A soft pained whimper escapes her bloodied lips…

Jumping off the steps, Chris races to her side. The rain now being swept in by the howling wind, pounding all around him, soaking them both, Chris brushes her dirty, wet hair away from her face. “Domnisoara? Domnisoara? Mă auzi?” _(Miss? Miss? Can you hear me?)_ Chris looks away briefly, his eyes locking on the boy. Hearing a low breathy hiss coming from the woman, Chris tears his eyes away slowly, but not before seeing that smirk curl the boys mouth.

Leaning in closer to the woman, he repeats “Domnisoara?” _(Miss?)_

Another hiss escapes her lips, pushing herself up on all fours, her hair obscuring her face she whispers “ _Preot_ …” _(Priest…)_

But the voice…

It’s…

Different…

“ _Preot_ …” _(Priest…)_

“Domnisoara?” _(Miss?)_

Getting on her knees the woman hisses out at Chris, her hands, elongated and clawed take a swipe at him as he stumbles backwards. Lunging at him, she strikes him across his face with such force, spinning him around he lands on a pile of broken boards and cinderblocks.

Moaning out, the pain in his ribs making it harder for him to catch his breath, he pushes himself onto his feet. Gripping his side, his face scrapped and bloodied, he stares at the woman on her knees rocking back and forth.

Slowly walking up to her, but still keeping his distance, he digs inside his cassock and pulls out a small bottle.

“Cine esti?” _(Who are you?)_ Uncapping the bottle, quietly, he grips it tighter.

“Eu sunt Lucifer... în trup!” _(I am Lucifer… in the flesh!)_

“De fapt? Ciudat... Am crezut că ai'd fi... mai mare...” _(Strange… I thought you’d be… bigger…)_

“Să te ia dracu!” _(Fuck you!)_ Swinging her mangled hands out, she takes several more swipes at Chris. Dodging out of her grasp, he splashes the holy water on her. Slinking back, she spits out at him. “Să te ia dracu!”

“Where are you going? _Huh?”_ Running after her, Chris grabs her by her hair and drags her back to the center of the room, back to where he can see the four points of the cross beams. Throwing her on the wet ground, he splashes her over and over again with holy water. Her skin bubbling and festering, boils coming to the surface as they… _pop_.

The sickening sound followed by the… stench. That stench that Chris is so…accustomed to. Jumping, she wraps her legs around his waist, her clawed hands gripping his neck as she begins to strangle him. Stumbling back, he slams into a stone pillar.

Digging her claws deeper into his neck, she throws him down. Laughing and hissing wildly, she climbs on him, straddling him, pinning him to the ground. With one maimed hand, she grabs both his wrist and twist them above his head.

“ _GAAAHHH!!! Fuckin’ bitch!_ Get off me!” Chris yells out. He can feel the bones in his wrist bending grotesquely, the cracking starting to ring in his ears.

Licking her dried split lips, the woman throws her head back as she begins to roll her hips and grind on him. “Am'm de gând să îndepărtaţi pieliţa corp... mincat carnea de pe oase ... în timp ce eu să te ia dracu Preot ...” _(I’m going to peel the skin off your body… eat the flesh from your bones… while I fuck you Priest…)_

Grinding down harder and faster on Chris, he cringes in disgust as she moans and groans louder. Circling her hips, she bares down and continues to rub herself on him. Running her maimed hand up and down his cock she hisses and cackles. Squirming, Chris pulls against the stronghold she has on his wrists. Pushing against her, Chris maneuvers himself, his hand grasping at the ground where his bottle of holy water fell, clutching at the dirt.

“Mă ia dracu preot! Mă ia dracu preot! Ce's o problema? Ai don't&a mea?!” _(Fuck me Priest! Fuck me Priest! What’s a matter?_ _You don’t like my pussy?!)_ Snapping her head forward, her tongue lashes out and laps up Chris face.

Twisting his face away, Chris yanks his hand out of her hold as he slams his fist full of dirt in her mouth. Her mouth immediately smoking, she hisses and screeches as she falls on her back convulsing on the ground, her jagged nails ripping and slicing at her throat. Blood spurting everywhere.

Getting up quickly, Chris grabs the holy water, spraying it on the woman she wither’s and howl’s in agony. Her flesh splitting and exploding as the smell of rotten meat wafts through the air. Rolling on her stomach, her tongue splits in two as her eyes roll to the back of her head.

And that sound… the sound of her tongue ripping into two, is a sound Chris will _never_ forget.

Snatching her up by her hair, Chris brings her to her knees. Keeping a hold on her hair, he digs in his pocket and pulls out his rosary, wrapping it around his hand, he slams his palm onto her forehead.

Wailing loudly, her arms go limp on her side as Chris begins the exorcism. “Dumnezeu, a caror natura este mai milostiv şi iertător, ne acceptaţi ca această rugăciune robul tau, legat de obezi de päcat, pot fi gratiata de bunătatea ta iubitoare.” _(God, whose nature is ever merciful and forgiving, accept our prayer that this servant of yours, bound by the fetters of sin, may be pardoned by your loving kindness.)_ The woman continues to scream as she throws her head back, swaying back and forth she hisses and spews curses at Chris.

“Să te ia dracu! Să te ia dracu! Am'm de gând să mănânce sufletul Preot ...” _(Fuck you! Fuck you! I’m going to eat your soul Priest…)_

“Domnul sfânt, atotputernicul tatăl, veşnică Dumnezeu şi Tatăl Domnului nostru Isus Cristos, care o dată şi pentru toate expediate ca scăzut şi Tiranul la flăcări apostat iadului, care a trimis doar dvs. conceput de Fiul Său în lume pentru a zdrobi ca leul răcneşte; grăbi noastre de apel pentru ajutor şi suflam de dărăpănare morală şi de la cuplajele de noonday diavolul acest om făcute în chipul şi asemănarea. Groaza, Domnul, în fiarei acum de stabilire risipa de vie.” _(Holy Lord, almighty Father, everlasting God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who once and for all consigned that fallen and apostate tyrant to the flames of hell, who sent your only-begotten Son into the world to crush that roaring lion; hasten to our call for help and snatch from ruination and from the clutches of the noonday devil this human being made in your image and likeness. Strike terror, Lord, into the beast now laying waste in your vineyard. Fill your servants with courage to fight manfully against that reprobate dragon, lest he despise those who put their trust in you, and say with Pharaoh of old: "I know not God, nor will I set Israel free." Let your mighty hand cast him out of your servant, so he may no longer hold captive this person whom it pleased you to make in your image, and to redeem through your Son; who lives and reigns with you, in the unity of the Holy Spirit, God, forever and ever.)_ Chris throat goes dry, his tongue feels like sandpaper against the roof of his mouth. He can’t stop now. He knows he has to finish this.

Yelling above the storm he pushes on.         

Thrusting herself forward, the woman begins to rub herself and grind against her hand. Lifting her gown, she exposes herself to Chris. “Ai vrea s&meu Preot? Îţi place ce vezi? Preotul s&a mea ia dracu! Mă ia dracu!” _(You like my pussy Priest? Do you like what you see? Fuck my pussy Priest! Fuck me!)_ Grabbing at his wrist, she yanks him down, ripping a piece of his cassock clean off.

Wrenching her hand off of him, in one swift move, he snaps her wrist in two. Pushing her back down, he lays his hand back on her. “No more fuckin’ around— m’gonna send you back to fuckin’ hell where you belong. You… and your little boyfriend.”

Glancing up behind him, Chris stares into nothing but blackness.

The boy stares back, jutting his chin out, the rain streaking down his cheeks as it slides over his parted lips. Smirking… he licks his lips…

Fisting his hand in the woman’s hair, he jerks her forward, hard. Tearing his eyes away he continues “Eu, spiritul necurate, cine esti, împreună cu toate slugile acum ataca acest slujitor al lui Dumnezeu, prin tainele încarnare, pasiune, înviere, şi de ascensiune a Domnului nostru Isus Cristos prin coborârea Spiritului sfânt, prin venirea Domnului nostru pentru judecata ca-mi spui de unele semnezi, şi ziua şi ora plecării.” _(I command you, unclean spirit, whoever you are, along with all your minions now attacking this servant of God, by the mysteries of the incarnation, passion, resurrection, and ascension of our Lord Jesus Christ, by the descent of the Holy Spirit, by the coming of our Lord for judgment, that you tell me by some sign your name, and the day and hour of your departure. I command you, moreover, to obey me to the letter, I who am a minister of God despite my unworthiness; nor shall you be emboldened to harm in any way this creature of God, or the bystanders, or any of their possessions.)_ Chris voice grows louder with every word. He’s being fueled by the need to save this woman, as well as the need to… shove his dagger deep into the chest of that… that thing.

Her entire body begins to convulse. Chris repeats the words again as sweat drenches down his back. “Ele vor stabili mâinile pe bolnav si totul va fi bine cu ele. Poate Isus, Fiul Lui Mary, Domnul şi Mântuitorul lumii prin meritele şi mijlocire sfinţilor Săi apostoli Petru şi Paul şi toţi sfinţii lui, arăta favoarea şi mila.” _(They shall lay their hands upon the sick and all will be well with them. May Jesus, Son of Mary, Lord and Savior of the world, through the merits and intercession of His holy apostles Peter and Paul and all His saints, show you favor and mercy.)_

And before Chris can say Amen, he feels a blow to his chin, knocking him five feet into the air, he drops down, face first onto a pile of rubble. Groaning out, he slowly gets on his knees. Wiping his mouth, he glances at the blood smeared on his fingerless gloved hand.

Walking out of a wisp of black smoke, the boy takes form.

Chris mouth goes slack as he stares at him…

_His eyes… Dear God… his eyes…_

_There’s nothing there…_

_Nothing but… pure evil…_

“Mai multe din trucurile… baiat?” _(More of your tricks… boy?)_ Chris huffs out as he spits blood.

“Ai ma… batran.” _(You bore me… old man)_ Biting his bottom lip, he giggles. “Doriţi să consultaţi un… _truc_?” _(Would you like to see a… trick?)_

Turning his back on Chris, he cocks his head to the left as he lets out a low growl resonating deep within him. That sound alone sends shivers trickling up Chris spine. His ragged breath burning in his throat, he glances at his silver dagger lodged in the splintered wood.

His raven eyes focus on the pathetic woman on her knees in front of him. Her back twisted and contorted, she yanks at her tattered gown, shredding it to pieces as it falls from her bruised and bloated body.

Hissing and slashing at the air, the boy holds his hands up as he kneels down in front of her. Her eyes unfocused as her neck begins to crack and twist hideously.

“Uite… la… mine…” _(Look… at… me…)_ Enunciating every syllable, the boy leans back a bit “Ai adulmecat...” _(You stink…)_

Snapping her head forward, she straightens up immediately. Focusing on the black eyes staring back at her, she lets out a garbled groan. “Nr... Nr... ai... pot't fi...'re nu este real.” _(No… No… you… can’t be… you’re not real)_ Whimpering and slouching her shoulders, she snarls out, clamping down on her jaw hard, several teeth splinter and break loose. Her forked tongue pushing them out between her brittle lips.

“Oh, dar eu... am.” _(Oh, but I… am)_ The boy smirks.

Pushing onto his feet quickly, Chris sees a chance and he takes it. This may be the only chance he gets to save the woman. Lunging at the boy, Chris throws his entire weight at him.

Hearing movement off to his left, the boy turns and glares at the older man charging at him. Eyes as dark as obsidian flash red rimmed like rings of fire as Chris gets slammed chest first onto the soaked earth.

The very breath punched out of his lungs.

Coughing out more blood, his chin connects with dirt and rock. The dizziness disorienting him as he tries to focus on the black boots slowly walking towards him. Looking up, the pain skyrockets from his neck shooting straight up and burying itself in his head.

Squatting down, the boy places his finger under Chris chin, tipping his face up to meet his…

Mere inches separate their faces from each other…

Chris entire body freezes…

His eyes slide down the boys rain slicked face…

“Respira... Preot.” _(Breathe… Priest)_ The boy leans in… his lips ghosting over the older man’s.

Exhaling into Chris parted lips, the boy’s eyes flutter close as Chris inhales deeply, drinking him in.

His breath invading the older man’s body. Taking and claiming as if it were his own.

Chris has never experienced anything like this before ever. He can’t even fathom a thought or description of what he’s feeling right now. His body feels like it’s alive with a thousand pin pricks tingling and feathering him everywhere.

It’s beyond intoxicating, beyond heady, it stimulates Chris _every_ which way possible. It’s seductive and addictive.

Trembling, his body buckles as he struggles to get up. A moan catches in his throat.

“Ssshh…” Tapping his finger on Chris lips, he shakes his head. Taking a deep breath he narrows his eyes as he glares at him. “Ai've întreruptă de mine, de mai multe ori deja. Şi am'm să devină destul de obosit de-o. Deci... Cred Eu—“ _(You've interrupted me, several times already. And I'm getting pretty tired of it. So... I think—)_

Standing up he turns his back on Chris as he raises his hand above his head. Screaming out Chris is hauled up five feet off the ground as the boy lashes at the air sending him flying across the outbuilding.

His body impacting the wall with such force, the mortar and brick collapse around him. _“Aaahh!!!”_ Chris groans out, his breath escaping him as his head slumps down to his chest. A huff of breath slips through his lips as a stream of spittle and blood slide down his chin staining his cassock.

“Nr. nr. nr... ai don't ajunge la rataţi fun acum. Uite la mine Preot!” _(No no no… you don’t get to miss out on all the fun now. Look at me Priest!)_ Making Chris head snap up, blood flowing from his mouth and nose like a sieve, he tries to focus his eyes on the boy, but all he sees is a blur.

The whimpering and the whining coming from the woman slowly begin to fade away.

His lips curling into a smile, he focuses his attention back at the woman.

Spitting out curses and a string of damnations, the woman sways back and forth, back and forth.

Walking behind the woman, the boy grips her by her hair, yanking her head back hard. Screeching and sobbing loudly, her arms flailing madly, she tries to strike him.

Placing her in a choke hold, he jerks her up on her feet. Her tip toes scrapping the dirt floor as she struggles against the boys grip. Her clawed hands reaching up and pulling on his forearms, as her fingers slip on his wet jacket.

Hissing and howling, her screams pierce Chris eardrums. Sluggishly trying to keep his head up, he watches as the boy chokes the woman up, snapping her body from left to right rapidly as he puts more pressure on her throat.

Glaring at Chris, he whispers “Spune-mi ... unde este?” _(Tell me… where is it?)_ “De unde ai o ascunde?” _(Where did you hide it?)_

Spitting out, the woman digs her nails into the boy’s jacket, trying frantically to free herself from his clutches.

“Nu stiu ce vei cauta…” _(I do not know what you seek…)_ Laughing wildly, it snaps its forked tongue at his face, dodging it quickly he throws her on the ground, his black eyes flashing a ring of fire. Pinning her to the ground, her body convulses as she tries to push herself up.

The rain coming down harder, the pounding sound vibrating off the makeshift roof as the wind sweeps it in from above.

Chris pulls at the invisible hold binding him, twisting his body, he feels the tension loosening some. Looking up at the woman squirming and hollering on the ground, he knows he needs to get to her and get to her now if he means to save her.

The boy’s going to kill her…

Grunting hard, Chris shoves and pulls himself up, using all his strength he takes a heavy step forward. Clenching his fists, he digs in his back pocket, wrapping his fingers around the cool feel of silver as he takes another heavy step forward. His legs feel as if they’re being held down by lead weights.

“Minti... Dar nu v't astept nimic mai puţin de la o mică posesia roach ca tine. Deci... acum am eu sa te omoare.” _(You lie... But I wouldn't expect anything less from a low possession roach like you. So... now I get to kill you.)_ The boy stares at the woman as a low growl escapes his lips. Raising his hands, a ring of fire explodes around the woman. Trapping her within its circle.

Screaming, she clasps her hands on the ground as she crawls away from the fire, but the flames lick at her from every direction. Screeching she begins to claw at her face, ripping the skin clean off. Blood spurting from her torn face as bits and pieces of her skin flap and hang off her neck.

Pointing at Chris the woman yells “Preot! Preot! Ajuta-ma! O ajuta! Il omoara-ma il omoara pe femeie! Preot!” _(Priest! Priest! Help me! Help her! He kills me he kills the woman! Priest!)_ Blood now gushing from what’s left of the woman’s yellowed skin.

Gasping out, Chris has never seen anything like this before. The woman continues to beseech him as she rips chunks of her hair, removing scalp and tossing it at him.

“Preot! Preot!” She screams at him, her tongue rolling out as the smell of her burnt flesh begins to choke him.

Breaking the hold, Chris full on runs, pulling off his cassock, he drops it behind him. Lifting his hand, the silver cross blade shines as he strikes at the boys back. Side stepping quickly, the boy is instantly behind Chris as he narrowly misses the tip of the blade.

Jumping on Chris back, he drags him down to the ground. The boy’s arms wrapping around Chris neck as he shoves his face in the dirt.

Chris is caught off guard at how strong he is. He knows he outweighs him, he’s bigger than him in every single way possible, but fuck, the boy has him pinned and he’s struggling to breathe. Every breath he takes he’s sucking in dirt through his nose and mouth.

Grabbing and twisting Chris neck, he jerks his head up. Sucking in a breath of cold air, Chris coughs out dirt, blood and spittle. The weight of the boy’s body flushed on his back.

_Fuck me! Goddammit!_

He doesn’t weight anything! And still he can’t shake him.

“Tocmai aţi don't cunosc locul te Preot?” _(You just don’t know your place do you Priest?)_ The boy leans in more, pressing his hard body against Chris muscled back. Spotting the blade, Chris inches his hand towards it, trying to reach it. Glancing at the boy’s face, he can feel his lips against his ear as his mouth curls into a wicked grin. His black eyes going from Chris face to the blade as he watches his fingers digging into the earth trying to grab at it.

Giggling, the boy whispers in Chris ear. His lips ghosting his lobe sending shivers up and down the older man’s body. His warm breath, making Chris swallow… hard. His eyes automatically flutter close as he inhales sharply.

Feeling the boy’s fingers walk down his arm, he stops as he lazily traces a circle around Chris muscle.

That touch…

That singular touch…

Chris lips tremble at his… touch.

“Ai're mare Preot. Îmi place. O provocare. Dar ai're nu de mult de o provocare? Vazind cum te-am agatata... sub mine. Ceva imi spune insa... don't ca fiind... pe partea de jos a? Sentimentul ciudat la parametri optimi't? De a fi tratat ca... catea mea...” _(You're big Priest. I like that. A challenge. But you're not much of a challenge are you? Seeing how I have you pinned... beneath me. Something tells me though... you don't like being... on the bottom do you? Strange feeling isn't it? Being treated like… my… bitch.)_ His eyes quickly dart to the older man’s fingers tipping the hilt of the blade. “Treceţi la. Obţineţi-l. Preotul să-l. Am câştigat't te opresc.” _(Go on. Get it. Reach for it Priest. I won’t stop you.)_

The hum of the boy’s voice elicits a tightness deep in his belly, something unlike he’s never felt before.

As quickly as the feeling sweeps through him, he pushes the very thought out of his mind. More than anything, what he wants to do right now… is to kill that little bastard.

Gritting down on his jaw, he huffs a breath out through his nose. Tipping the blade, he grunts out as he tries to lift himself off the ground.

Clasping his hand over the older man’s hand, he shoves the blade away, as he jumps off of Chris and kicks him in the ribs. Doubling over, he clutches his side as the boy repeatedly kicks him. The last kick sending Chris flying across the room again. His head thumping on the ground as the wind gets punched out of him.

Walking slowly towards him, he stops mid stride. His mouth turned up in a salacious curl as a low hiss slips through his lips. The rain pelleting them from all sides, Chris blinks away the rain drops slicking his lashes together as he looks up at him. Clutching his ribs, the throbbing pain shoots up his sides with every breath he takes.

“Trebuie să vă grăbiţi să mor. Poftim preot? Lăsaţi-mă să termin ce am început şi apoi... Am'll dau toata atentia. Dar de acum... Relaxaţi strâns.” _(You must be in a hurry to die. Huh Priest? Let me finish what I started, and then... I'll give you my undivided attention. But for now... sit tight.)_ The boys’ voice ringing in Chris ear so close, it makes the fine little hairs prickle along his lobe.

Raising his hand at Chris, fisting it, he forces him into a sit down position. Chris’ body goes rigid as he winces out from the pain. “Acum... don't muta de acolo. Am'll fi dreapta spate.” _(Now… don’t move from there. I’ll be right back.)_ Turning his back on Chris, the boy walks over to where the woman is bent over, blood seeping from her face, droplets splashing on the back of her hands as her fingers dig and scrap at the wet ground.

Mumbling to herself, she covers her face with her dirty hands, sobbing loudly she snaps her head up and yells out “Marele Preot va rog! Salvaţi-mă! Ajuta-ma! El's o sa ma omoare. Vă rugăm don't lasa-l sa ma omoare. I... Am o familie. Vă rog, vă rugăm să vă ajută-mă! Preot!” (Priest please! Save me! Help me! He's going to kill me. Please don't let him kill me. I... I have a family. Please, please help me! Priest!)

The face staring and pleading with Chris is no longer the possessed creature he encountered. But the missing woman tacked up all over town on fliers.

Bloody tears sliding down her shredded cheeks, she scuttles on her knees, her mangled hands reaching out for help.

“Preot! Preot! Ajuta-ma…” _(Priest! Priest! Help me…)_

Clasping his hands together, he claps loud and slow three times. Rolling his tongue across his lips, he smiles at the woman. “Bravo. Rahat de Bravo.” _(Bravo. Fucking Bravo.)_ He says chuckling.

Glancing behind him, the boy grins at Chris.

Shaking his head, Chris mouths _no…_

Rushing behind the woman, the boy grabs her by her hair, exposing her throat, keeping his eyes on the older man, never wavering, the slight drop in the tone of his voice makes Chris skin pebble with goosebumps. “Am'm de gand sa te intreb, doar o data. Dacă minţi, am'll ucide. Foarte, foarte... încet. Şi am'll face... rănită... un lot. Acum... unde este?” _(I'm going to ask you, only once. If you lie to me, I'll kill you. Very, very... slowly. And I'll make it... hurt... a lot. Now... where is it?)_

Glancing away from Chris’ face, the boy’s eyelids fall heavy and flutter. Whispering as he tightens the grip he has on her throat “Spune-mi ...” _(Tell me…)_

Squirming and wiggling, dragging herself sluggishly on her knees she tries to pull away, but the vice-grip the boy has on her is unbreakable. Squeezing her neck he whispers again “Spune-mi…” _(Tell me…)_

“Trebuie să merg şi eu'll spune. Da, lasa-ma si am'll spune tot ceea ce trebuie să ştiţi. Trataţi?” _(Let me go and I’ll tell you. Yes, let me go and I’ll tell you everything you need to know. Deal?)_ Giggling madly, the woman runs her contorted and jagged nails up the boy’s sleeve.

“Cum despre, tu şi cu mine, ia ca marile slab de carne de om acolo, şi l-intestinale ca pestele. Putem... putem face el îl vizionaţi ţipăt şi purjaţi afară ca un câine. Putem face asta impreuna. Ce spui? Poftim? Ai'd? Noi avem un... trataţi baiatul?” _(How about, you and I, take that big slab of man meat over there, and gut him open like a fish. We can... we can make him scream and watch him bleed out like a dog. We can do this together. What do you say? Huh? You'd like that? Do we have a... deal little boy?)_ The woman opens her cracked lips, exposing what’s left of her rotten and jagged teeth as she looks up at him.

Moving his head away, furrowing his brow, the boy winces at the closeness. “Sunteţi una urâtă rahat de catea.” _(You are one, ugly fucking bitch.)_

Letting her go, he shoves her down as he takes several steps away. Staring at the older man, he looks over his shoulder. “Trataţi? Nu am face oferte. Am dat o sansa. Trebuie să vă've luate. Acum... Acum am să te omoare” _(Deal? I do not make deals. I gave you a chance. You should’ve taken it. Now… Now I kill you.)_

Screeching and yelling curses at the boy, her body goes rigid as she’s jerked up on her toes.

Chris watches in horror as he tries to scramble loose from the boys hold also. Wincing from the stabbing pain radiating from his ribs, he tries to stand on his feet. Stumbling forward, he drops to his knees. The silver blade only several feet away from him, its shine glowing in the light of every lightning strike.

Bowing his head down and with a flick of his fingers, a fire erupts around the woman.

Engulfing her within its flames.

Shrieking, she scrambles back as the flames burn and jump at her flesh. Jolting forward, she attempts to run out of the circle as the boy throws up one hand stopping her instantly. Her body thumping with a hollow thud as if she was being slammed into a brick wall.

“Ah ah ah…” The boy grins at her. Shaking his finger, he glances over at the older man. “Vă uitaţi Preot? Acest ... Aceasta este ceea ce ai vrut sa vezi, dreapta? Acest ... Aceasta este ceea ce aţi parcurs toate acest mod pentru. Ai vrut sa stii cum, nu înţelegeau't? Cum i-a omorat?...” _(Are you watching Priest? This... this is what you wanted to see, right? This... this is what you traveled all this way for. You wanted to know how, didn’t you? How I killed them?)_

 _Yes…_ His lips barely moving above a hairline of a whisper. Chris eyes growing darker with every second he’s in the same room with… _him_.

“Nu! Nu! Nu! Am'll spune! Am'll spune totul. Stiu unde este.” _(No! No! No! I'll tell you! I'll tell you everything. I know where it is.)_ The woman locks her hands together, hissing, her forked tongue laps at her torn skin.

Closing his eyes, the boy turns his face up, towards the night sky. The rain now turning into sleet, it pellets him across his cheeks. The stinging sensation making his face flush red.

Staring at the boy, Chris is in a trance. Just… watching… him. He’s never seen anything like him before.

Grazing his teeth over his bottom lip, the pink moistened tip of his tongue slides between his lips. Rolling his neck slowly, he closes his eyes as a soft sigh slips from his lips.

Slowly spreading his hands open, the fire pops and snaps as he fist his hands, immediately extinguishing the flames.

Shielding his eyes, Chris mouth goes slack as he watches what’s left behind by the fire.

A ring of dirt…

Black dirt…

The same as the other murders…

_Dear God…_

Smirking over his shoulder, the boy winks at the older man on his knees now. “Vizionaţi...” _(Watch)_ he mouths.

Lifting the woman in mid-air, he spreads her eagle, her tatted rags sliding off her body. Walking around the ring of black dirt, he claps his hands together and giggles. Looking up at her, he side steps under her. Her blood dripping down her body and pooling under her feet.

Waving his hand by his nose, the boy glances up at the older man. _Smiling._ “Doriţi unele din acest Preot?” _(You want some of this Priest?)_ Motioning to the naked woman, he laughs. “Este ceea ce vă place? Spune-mi, am'll fi mai mult decât fericiţi să vă dau doi indragostiti... unele intimitate. Adica...” _(Is that what you like? Let me know, I'll be more than happy to give you two lovers... some privacy. I mean...)_

Motioning with his finger, he drags Chris across the dirt. Rushing up to him, the boy fists him by the collar, jerking him down to his face, the boy looks up at him.

Being pulled down, makes it so that their eyes are at even level with each other. Chris has him easily beat by several inches in height. And, he most definitely outweighs him.

Getting a closer look at him, Chris drags his eyes down the boy’s body. He’s… fit. His skin is flawless, perfect. That just solidify’s the fact that he’s not a person possessed. He’s… something else.

His eyes drag back up the boys frame… slowly. Stopping at his… mouth. That mouth that’s curled into a smirk.

That mouth…

The pink bit of his tongue rolling over his lips, followed by his teeth rolling over that bottom one. Making it redder than it already is.

“Dacă's, Preot. Este că dumneavoastră...?” _(If that’s your thing, Priest. Is that your… thing?)_ This time, it’s the boy who drags his raven eyes up and down Chris body. Leaning in even closer, gripping his black shirt, he whispers against the older man’s stubble. “Altul?” _(Pussy?)_

Glaring at the boy now, Chris spits out “Fuck you!”

Raising his eyebrow, the boy snatches Chris by the throat, digging his fingers into his flesh, he squeezes slowly, exuding pressure. Turning red, the veins in Chris temple begin to pulse hard and beat fast as his precious oxygen is being sucked out of him.

 _“You… wish.”_ The boy’s voice is soft and velvety. Unlike _nothing_ Chris has ever heard.

 _“GAAAHH!!!”_ Chris screams out as the boy lifts him off the ground and tosses him across the room. His body crashing through a glass window.

Landing outside in a puddle of mud and rain. He’s face down in dirt. Pushing himself up, he drops back down in agony. The lightening sharp pain coming from his thigh, Chris grabs at it quickly. Looking down he sees a piece of glass protruding from the muscle. Wrapping his hand around it, he bites down and slowly tries to pull it out.

Screaming out again, the pain is unbearable, his thigh feels like it’s on fire. Breathing hard and fast through his nose, he bows down and begins to pull the glass out. The sharp edges cutting into his hand, slicing his palm and fingers open.

“Here… let me help you with that.” Placing his hand over the older man’s hand, the boy squeezes down hard, twisting the glass deeper into his flesh.

Throwing his head back, Chris opens his mouth and screams. Fisting and slamming his free hand on the drenched ground, he splatter’s them both with muddy rain water. The thunder rattling all around them, making his ears pop.

“On second thought… I need to hurry this up.” Ripping the glass out of Chris thigh, blood spurting out of the wound like a busted pipe, Chris screams out again.

“You _muthafucker!_ ” Gripping his leg quickly, his blood splaying out between his fingers, spreading all over his pants and the ground beneath him, he tries to roll on his side.

“ _Oh_ … no no no Priest. Where do you think _you’re… going?”_

Walking up to the older man, he watches as he drags his bloodied leg, lifting him up by the shoulders, he throws him back into the room, through the same window he was just thrown out of.

Chris eyes flutter close, the pain raking throughout his entire body is beyond agonizing. If his ribs weren’t broken before… they are now. He knows he’s losing blood. He can feel it. His body temperature’s dropping.

Rolling on his stomach, he sees his dagger still lodged in the pillar, he needs it. Dragging himself, he pushes harder. Rolling over on his back, he looks up and doesn’t see the boy. Ripping a piece of his shirt, he twists it quickly. Tying it above the wound, he makes a tourniquet slowing down the blood loss.

But not stopping it…

Standing up as quickly as he can, he looks around and still… no sign of the boy. Limping and clipping back groans of pain, he runs ignoring the burning stretch of torn muscle.

Wrapping his hand around the silver hilt of his dagger, he yanks it free. Tightening his hold on it, he turns, when suddenly, he feels a sharp crack against his temple, sending him stumbling back, his back slamming against jagged rocks.

Still gripping the dagger, he shakes his head as he looks up at… him.

Shoving himself up, Chris looks at the boy.

Their eyes locked onto one another…

This is the fight or flight mode. But the boy, he’s not about the latter… he’s all about the fight.

Smirking at him, it’s Chris turn now.

“Alright, you little…” Chris eyes drawing down the boy’s length… and slowly dragging back up again. “… _bitch_ —“ Taking his dagger, Chris turns it in his hand. Gripping the blade, he throws it, sending it soaring pass the boy. “—you like to throw punches and turn into your _wisp_ of black smoke _huh? Huh?_ You _fuckin’ pussy—_ what’s a matter? Can’t fight me like a man? I guess you can’t… can you?”

Taking a step closer, Chris keeps his eyes on him. Huffing out a laugh, he wipes the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. “You know why?”

Clenching his jaw, he fists his hands by his side, cracking his knuckles as he stares at the older man.

“Cause you’re nothing but a _fuckin’ boy…_ probably still wet behind the ears, _yeah_ , I bet.” Taking another step closer, his mouth turns into a hard line as he clips back the jolt of pain coming from his ribs.

“You’re a _baby…”_ Chris taunts him now. Forcing the words out through clenched teeth.

“Why don’t you come look me up—“ smirking now, Chris juts his chin out glancing at the boy’s pants “-when your _balls_ finally drop and you grow some hair in that ass.” Winking at the boy, Chris continues to taunt him “Probably don’t even know what it feels like to be balls deep inside a woman. _Fuckin’ puppy.”_

“Fuck you!” The boy spits out, red hot rage flowing through his veins like lava. Glaring at the older man now, a tremble rakes throughout his body.

Placing his hand on his chest, Chris shakes his head back and forth… slowly. A cruel smile creeps across his lips. “You… _wish._ ”

“ _GAAHHH!!!”_ He shrieks out, breaking into a run, the boy charges at the Chris as Chris takes off running towards him—throwing a punch and landing into nothing but black smoke, Chris stumbles forward as an arm comes up from behind him and reaches around his neck.

Knocking him backwards, Chris lands flat on his back, the searing pain spiking from his broken ribs has him gasping for breath.

Straddling him quickly, the boy leans in and punches Chris in the jaw making his head snap back as it bounces off the ground. Meeting the boy’s punch again, this time he catches Chris on the mouth splitting his lips open.

Tasting the metallic twang of blood coating his mouth and teeth, his eyes focus on the punch coming at him again. Dodging it quickly, the fist landing on the ground, grazing his ear.

Pulling his fist back, Chris blocks another punch as he throws his fist and lands it perfectly on the boy’s cheek. Bucking up he shoves him off of him, scrambling to his knees, Chris lunges at him. Grappling with the boy, he instantly gets behind him as he wraps his huge arm around his neck, placing him in a chokehold.

Pinning his smaller frame in-between his legs, Chris takes the advantage. Dropping back, he pulls the boys legs down hard as he squeezes on his windpipe.

Blood bursting from his throat, it trickles from the sides of his mouth as the boy struggles against Chris strong hold.

Gritting down, spittle and blood flying out of Chris mouth, he drops back down again, harder. Feeling the bones in the boy’s neck, Chris has completely lost all control.

All he sees is blood…

All he wants to do is kill this little fucker!

He’s never felt so much anger and rage before, it’s never taken him to this level. The only feeling he has right now, the only thing that’s fueling him is nothing more than pure hatred for the boy.

Pulling on the older man’s grip, he digs his fingers between his forearm and his wrist, with his other arm, the boy begins to elbow him in his broken ribs.

With every hit, Chris slowly loosens his grip on the boy’s throat.

His fingers wrap around the older man’s wrist as he snaps and breaks it.

Screaming out, Chris completely lets him go.

Pushing off of the older man, the boy crawls away on his hands and knees, coughing and spitting up blood. His fingers digging into the wet earth as he desperately gulps down several breaths.

Reaching for his neck, he stands shakily. Turning around, his eyes blazing, he narrowly misses the blade of the older man’s dagger as it slices through the air.

Chris brings the blade back up almost immediately, bringing it back down, he has a direct view of the boy’s chest.

Ready to plow it into him and bury it to the hilt.

Swatting the older man’s hand away, the boy knees him in his wounded thigh. Spinning around he kicks him dead in his chest, sending him flying backwards. Not giving him a chance, the boy rushes up to him, grabbing the back of his head, he knees him in his face.

Blood erupting from Chris nose, he slumps to down disoriented. Grabbing him by the back of the neck, the boy knees him over and over again in his ribs.

“ _AAAHHHH!!! FUCK!”_ Chris yells out. With every knee to his ribs, the ones that are already broken, break more.

Snatching the back of the older man’s neck, the boy chucks him on the ground.

Clutching his stomach, Chris arms tremble as he tries to push himself on his knees. He’s completely covered in his own blood. Mud and rain coating him from head to toe. His entire body is consumed in pain.

Dragging his leg, because he has no choice, he can’t stand even if he wanted. The tourniquet doing nothing to stop the flood of blood Chris is losing.

Stomping his boot in the middle of the older man’s back he shoves him down on the dirt. Digging and twisting his heel deeper into his flesh. The shallow, ragged breathing of the boy escapes his lips through cold tufts of air.

“And where the _fuck_ do you think you’re going? _Hm?_ ”

Leaning down, the boy grips the older man’s face in his hand.

Their faces are so close that Chris can see the boy in such detail…

_Jesus… he’s so young… he’s a fuckin’ kid…_

“What kind of _Priest_ are you?” The words dripping like venom from the boy’s lips. “You are… _nothing_ … You’re a _hypocrite Priest._ You believe your own lies. You believe what you do is for the greater good, for the love of… _your… God.”_ The corner of his mouth turning up into a curl. His blood pooling in the corners of his lips. “You lay your head at night and pray for _his_ undying love and ask _him_ for forgiveness from all your transgressions. Don’t you… _Priest?”_

Struggling to keep his eyes open, Chris is feeling cold and tired. If he keeps bleeding… he knows… he’ll die.

“Fuck you!” Chris clips out. “You don’t know shit.” Pulling away from the boy’s grip, he looks away from him.

Yanking his face back, the boy snaps at him “I know your soul has been touched by _sin—“_ Closing his eyes, the boy inhales the older man’s scent. “—you _reek_ of it.” His eyes roam up and down the older man’s body. “Your lips are moistened by the _bottle._ The tips of your fingers have held more than just a cigarette—“ Pressing closer to him, the boy’s lips ghost over his, Chris hears a low guttural growl coming from the boy and the look of disgust sweeps across his face. “—your _breath_ … still has the lingering stench of the whore’s… _cunt_.”

His fingers softly letting go of Chris face as he glances behind him at the creature still cowering within the circle. His eyes narrow as a ring of fire flashes in them, igniting the fire engulfing her all over.

From the corner of his eye, he sees a sharpen gleam come at him. Moving out of the way, he grabs the older man’s hand, twisting his arm, the boy gets behind him fast.

Bringing him to his knees, Chris feels his shoulder being pulled to the breaking point. The slow cracking of bone getting louder and louder in his ears.

Baring down on his shoulder and his elbow, he puts more pressure on his bones. “Let it go!” He yells at the older man. “Let it fuckin’ go!”

Struggling, Chris keeps his grip on the dagger. “No!” He spits out.

Nodding his head, the boy licks his lips as he looks down at the older man. “Fine…”

Snapping his shoulder out of its socket, dislocating the bone, Chris cries out. _“GAAAAHHH!!! Ahhh… Fuck!”_ The dagger slipping from his grasp.

Hovering his hand over it, the dagger levitates of the ground. Hesitating for a split second, the boy grabs the hilt quickly as his fingers close around it. Looking up into the night sky, the boy cries out.

The silver burning into his flesh, he pulls his hand back and plunges the blade into the older man’s chest, just below his shoulder.

Screaming in pain, he feels every inch of the blade, slicing and tearing through bone and muscle. His eyes red rimmed, as tears begin to pool and slip from the corners. His cries lessening into nothing more than pitiful whimpers.

Letting him go, the boy brings his hand directly in front of Chris face.

A haze of black smoke swirls in his palm as iron railroad spikes take form in his hand.

A cross…

Standing slowly, the boy sends it soaring through the air, slicing clean through the woman’s neck and spine decapitating her. Her head sagging slowly, the distinct sound of blood, flesh and bone sliding off the body makes Chris blanch in disgust.

Her head lands with a muffled thump.

Chris breath hitches as he watches in horror…

The body slumping down to the ground…

Its blood no longer red dripping from its neck… but black…

With his broken wrist throbbing, Chris has no strength to pull the blade out. His fingers press down trying to stop the blood pouring out…

It’s useless…

Losing all mobility in his body, Chris crumbles down to the ground…

His blood soaked hand slipping off his chest and landing in a puddle of rainwater now dyed with his blood…

Fighting to keep his head up, fighting to keep conscious, he fights…

But he’s growing cold and his body is becoming numb…

The dizziness overtaking him, his head falls back…

The rain and sleet coming down even harder now, it stings his face with ice pellets …

His eyelids falling heavy, Chris fights to stay awake…

_I can’t… I can’t close my… eyes… I can’t…_

_Is that… smoke? I smell… smoke…_

Feeling hands slip behind his neck and softly lift his head, he hears… a voice… the voice of a… _Angel…_

“Open your eyes… look at _me_ …”

Forcing his eyes open, Chris stares into eyes as black as onyx…

“Look around you…” His voice is _so_ sweet, _so_ angelic…

Chris doesn’t hear or see anything else that’s happening…

He doesn’t care…

All he sees is _him…_ all he hears is _him…_

And all around them… all hell is breaking loose. The crackling of the fire snapping at the wood and melting the metal, setting the entire monastery up in flames...

The beauty of the orange and red flames that surrounds them, cocooning them in their own personal inferno as the sparks lick high into the late night sky…

Black clouds of smoke sucking the oxygen out of the room…

Chris focuses his eyes back to the boy…

The boy looks down at the older man…

Kneeling down, he gently cups Chris bloody face. The boy’s thumbs gliding over his cheeks, wiping blood, dirt and rain.

Chris lips are parted as he fights for a breath…

The boy’s lips are parted too as he stares at the dying older man…

“Tell me… where is… _your… GOD…_ now? _Hm?_ Will he answer the prayers of a dying man? Or will _he_ forsake you?” Nodding twice, he rolls his lips, his brow creased as he closes his eyes and sighs deeply. “You’ll die here… alone, cold and wet. With no one by your side—“ sliding one hand over Chris hand, his fingers lace with his as he squeezes gently. “—or holding your hand. No one to _pray_ for your soul, or offer _you_ your _last rites.”_

Placing Chris head softly back on the ground, the frigid water soaking the back of his head and flowing down his neck, Chris huffs out as his body shivers and his teeth clatter.

Stuttering in a breath, Chris begins to choke on his own blood. The pain he’s feeling is as if his entire body imploded… except… he finds no relief, no end.

Grabbing the older man, he turns his face to the side as he brushes the blood from his lips.” _Ssshh…_ I know… _I… know.”_ The boy softly croons.

Gliding his thumb over the older man’s stubble, he leans in to him as he whispers “ _Who’s_ here with you—“ Tears begin to pool in the corners of his raven eyes. His breath hitches as he stares at the older man "—in your last dying breath? Is _he?_ Is _he?!_ No… _I am.”_

Digging in Chris pocket, the boy pulls out his rosary. Biting down, the burn of the blessed silver scorches his palm. Reaching for the older man’s hand, he places it in his palm and closes his fingers around it. “This… this is what your faith is about isn’t it? Your _blind_ faith. Nothing more than trinkets and bullshit shrines. _Ye shall make you no idols nor graven image, neither rear you up a standing image, neither shall ye set up any image of stone in your land, to bow down unto it: for I am the LORD your God…_ Leviticus 26:1”

Chris swallows back hard… he can’t speak… all he can do is stare at… the boy.

 _“_ You follow _him…_ like lambs to a slaughter. _He_ wiped his hands clean of your blood _Priest. He_ turned his back on you… when you needed him the most didn’t _he?_ Would you expect any less of _him—“_ Glancing away now, the boy’s tears flow down his flushed cheeks.

Trying to reach for him, Chris uses whatever strength he has left, his fingers sliding off the boy’s jacket.

_He’s crying… he’s… crying…_

_“—he_ turned his back on his only begotten _SON…_ Father’s _huh?”_ The boy chuckles, but it’s…

Sad…

Chris catches that…

Wiping at the tears, he turns his focus back at the older man. “But here _I am._ I’m the last face you’re going to see. I’m the last image seared in your head.” The boy presses his lips together as he nods quickly, his eyebrows arching. Leaning over the older man, he searches his face.

Wiping at the rain coming down on the older man, the boy slides his thumb over his bloody lip. “ _He_ sent you to die you know. It was either _him…_ or you. You’re expendable… you’re kind. But… I’m the bad one. _”_

“And now… _now_ you lay here and die…” Closing the gap between them, the boy softly presses his lips against the older man’s. Parting his lips slightly, the boy taste rain water mixed with blood. A soft barely audible moan escapes both their lips…

Pulling back, the boy begins to get up…

Grasping at the boy’s jacket, groaning out in pain, Chris pulls him down to him. His feeble grip making his hand shake. “Wait—“ Chris voice trembles as his chin rattles from the cold. “— _wha-_ what… what are… _you?”_

Pulling the older man’s hand from his jacket, he grips at the boy’s wrist…

His fingers sliding and lacing with the boys fingers…

Pushing his hand away from him, he shifts his body closer to the older man…

“ _Demon_ …” The boy whispers that one singular word…

Chris head lulls back…

_Demon…_

Fluttering his eyes open, he catches the boy’s black boots as he slowly walks out of the fire engulfing the building…

The black smoke infiltrating Chris throat and lungs… burning him from the inside out...

_Tired…_

_I’m… so… tired…_

Chris last thoughts before he slips into oblivion…

Before he slips into that welcoming darkness…

Isn’t his faith…

Isn’t the last thirty years of his life…

Isn’t… _God…_

The last thing he thinks about…

The last image seared in his mind…

Is of a boy with brunette hair…

So… lethal…

So… cold…

So… calculating…

So… evil…

But…

So… young…

So… beautiful…

He told him what he was…

Chris breathing slows down as he lets his eyes flutter close…

For the last thing he sees…

Is the boy…

The boy who brought him to his sweet death…

And death has never tasted so… good…

Chris clings to his last tether of reality…

The only thing he has left…

 _His_ …

_Own…_

_Demon…_

 


	2. Skin to Bones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Twenty-four hours later...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not going to waste your time with a long opening chapter note... for those who have been waiting patiently for this chapter and I do mean waiting patiently... cause holy shit... its been a year! I truly, truly apologize. But, from here on in, I'll be alternating between this fic and RED. So... without further ado... 
> 
> Chapter 2...
> 
> Demon...

_Brushing the sweat and dirt off his cheek, he squints as the hot July sun beats down all around him._

_Who ever said working under a hot ass car in the damn heat was good for the soul, is a fucking liar, he thinks to himself._

_Squinting, he blinks more sweat beads out of his eyes as he loosens several more bolts. The more difficult ones he’ll be able to get to once his baby’s on the lift._

_“C’mon…” he clenches his jaw as his hand tightens around the wrench. “C’mon you fucker!” he curses as he struggles with the last one. “C’mon!” Frustration and the rising temperatures getting the best of him as he starts banging it loose._

_“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Goddammit!”_

_Hitting it one more time, the rusted bolt breaks off in two pieces as he quickly turns his face. Rust, dust and pieces of metal fall all around him._

_“Boy… I can hear that mouth of yours all the way inside. Wanna pull back on several of those ‘fucks’? And mind your tongue with that ‘Goddammit’. Now, get out from under there. Now Christopher.”_

_“Shit…” he mutters as he huffs out a breath._

_“I heard that.”_

_Digging the heels of his Converse into the dirt, he pulls himself out from under his prized possession. His 1969 Ford Mustang Mach 1. Standing up, he brushes the dirt off his face. Pushing his mop of dark blond sweaty hair back, he runs his hands full of motor oil, grease and grime on his old blue jeans._

_Looking up at the older man, Chris waits for it. He knows what’s coming. “I’m sorry, Sir.” He quietly says bowing his head as he fidgets with the hem of his dirty white T._

_Laughing, the older man shakes his head as he walks over to the Mustang. Glancing at the ground, he notices several parts of the engine pulled and arranged neatly in order._

_“She’s getting to you that bad, huh, boy?” laughing again, he looks over at Chris and winks._

_“Ah, hell, Grandpa. Damn bolts under the chassis are rusted so tight, I gotta bang on them ‘til they break apart. Plus, I pulled the gas tank yesterday and look—“ Chris walks over to where the discarded tank sits on a work bench inside the garage, bringing it out he turns it and shows it to his grandfather “it’s cracked. I was hoping it was salvageable, but, yeah, no. That’s gonna cost me. Big time. I don’t have that kind of money.” Lowering his head, he walks back to the work bench, and drops the tank with a loud thud. His hands grip the edges as he rolls his lips and closes his eyes. His sweat drench shirt clinging to his thin frame._

_“Chris,” he murmurs “we’ll go get a new tank. Okay?”_

_Shaking his head hard, Chris looks up at him “No. No Grandpa. It’s expensive. I’ve looked into it. No… y-you can’t afford it.”_

_A sad smile crosses his grandfather’s face. Breathing in deeply, he takes a quick glance at the gas tank. He knows how pricey they can be for newer cars, so he can only imagine how much they cost for older cars, vintage cars. A ’69 Mustang type of car._

_“Chris, I know how much fixing this car up means to you. Let me help you, son.”_

_“You bought me the car! No Grandpa. No. I begged you to buy it for me. You didn’t have to but you did. And besides, we had a deal. Remember? You said if you bought it for me, I’d have to put all the work into it myself. So no. We’re sticking to the deal. I’ll buy the gas tank. And everything else she’ll need.” Tossing the wrench, he had in his hand behind him, it clatters and bangs on the table as it settles against several other tools._

_Breathing in deeply, he sighs as he looks up at his grandfather. Shrugging his shoulders, he chuckles “I figured, Ms. Martha said that some of her church lady friends need their yards mowed, so…” he pauses as he looks out towards the thickening clouds “if I charge fifteen dollars a yard, I should be able to have all the money within a couple of months.”_

__Walking up to his grandson, he places his big callused hands on his shoulders. Looking into his bright baby blues, his heart swells with_ so much love for him, its beyond words. He’s the only family he has left and vice versa. He’d do anything and everything for his grandson. _

_Every time he looks at him, it’s like he’s looking at the son he lost ten years ago when Chris was only two. A wave of pain washes over him as he stutters in a breath, his eyes misting over as he quickly looks away from his grandson._

_“Grandpa? Grandpa are you okay?”_

_It’s Chris this time that puts his hands on his shoulders and moves him over to a stool._

_“Grandpa?” his voice is tight and with an edge of worry._

_Breathing in deeply, he shakes his head and places his hand on Chris’ cheek. Pulling him in for a hug, he smiles and says “Oh, I’m fine. Just, was thinking is all. No need to worry. But, listen, I know you have got to be hungry—“ turning around he grabs the covered plate and soda handing it to him “it’s past your supper time, and, I knew you didn’t want to eat anything hot so, I made you a sandwich and there’s some chips too.” Standing up, he puts his arm around his grandson._

_“Eat up, and you should start putting your tools up.” Pointing at the sky, it looks visibly darker than it did moments earlier. “Looks like we’re getting ready for one hell of a summer storm. But on the bright side, should be a good night to sleep with the windows open.”_

_Placing a kiss on top of his head, he taps the Mustang as he walks back towards the house._

_“Don’t be too long, Chris.” He calls back to him._

_“I won’t Grandpa, I promise. Thanks for the sandwich!” He shouts back at him as he watches his grandfather disappear back into the house._

_Sitting on the stool, he picks up the sandwich and takes a big bite. Mm… Roast beef and Swiss on rye bread with just a swipe of mustard. Perfect. Popping a couple of chips in his mouth, he cracks the lid of his soda bottle. Taking several gulps, he “Aaaahhh… damn, just like the commercial.” Laughing to himself he looks up quickly when a lightning strike streaks across the sky followed by a loud thunder clap as the sky opens up and begins to downpour._

_Poised with the sandwich barely touching his lips he stares out towards the tree line beyond the property. The storm seemed to have come out of nowhere and the hairs on the back of his neck start to stand on end._

_Trying to shake the weird feeling that’s overcome him, he shakes his head once and opens his mouth to take a bite when he sees something shoot across just beyond the trees._

_Quickly dropping his sandwich on the plate, he strains to see what it could have been._

_Standing as still as air, Chris tries to listen intently for any sound out of the ordinary._

_Closing his eyes, he tunes in and… listens._

_The loud pitter patter of fat raindrops on the metal roof._

_The muffled thuds of raindrops hitting the ground._

_The swishing back and forth of branches and tree limbs being battered by the howling wind._

_But underneath all the natural sounds, there’s something there. It’s in the wind. He can… feel it._

_Snapping his eyes open, he looks towards the left, a rustling sound has him darting his eyes left to right and right to left scanning the woods._

_There it is! Out of his peripheral he sees it again racing across the trees._

_With his heart pounding in his chest, Chris takes off across the yard, legs pumping twice as hard to keep up as he spots it again, whatever it is, it makes a sharp ninety degree turn as it goes deeper into the woods._

_Following it, Chris jumps and flips over downed tree limbs, branches and fallen trees. He’s completely drenched as he continues to run faster and faster, stopping briefly to catch whatever that thing is in his sights._

_Whipping his head to the right, he spots it._

_“Jesus Christ! The fuck is that?” his heart dropped to his stomach as his mind wandered off to his Grandpa, but, Chris knew he would be safer inside and oblivious than out here with him trying to catch this… thing._

_Shaking the thought out of his head, Chris chases it as it breaks through a clearing and down a steep embankment._

_Rocks, gravel, branches and dry leaves crunching under his feet, Chris loses his footing as he goes spiraling down. Twisting his body and trying to protect his face, he takes the brunt of the fall to his ribs, knees and elbows. His face barely escaping with just several cuts and scrapes._

_The downward momentum has him slamming up against a tree as he huffs out a loud groan. If rolling down the hill didn’t break a few ribs, his full on body slam into the base of a massive Oak did._

_An instant wave of nausea hits him as he slowly tries to get to his feet. But the throbbing in his head has him falling down onto his hands and knees._

_His vision blurs as he tries to regain his bearings and just as instantly as his nausea came, it disappeared when he suddenly hears a sound unlike anything he’s ever heard in his young life._

_Slowly turning his head to the left, he begins to tremble as his vision steadily clears. The fog in his brain clearing just as quickly as his eyesight._

_Long beads of sweat drip steadily down his lashes as he rapidly blinks them away. His heart’s racing a million beats a second as his breath hitches and his body trembles with fear as he hears a low growl coming from directly in front of him._

_Chris has heard plenty of animals growling. But this, the sound it’s making, it sends jolts of ice shooting into his veins paralyzing him with dread._

_His eyes work their way up as he sees it emerge from behind some thick brush._

_Chris immediately backs himself up against the tree, a sharp gasp escapes his lips as his eyes grow wide with fear. A breath gets lodged in his throat as he stares up at the massive creature that slowly stalks towards him._

_“Oh... shit…” his throat suddenly goes dry as his blood runs cold. He’s never seen anything like it._

_His eyes sweep over its enormous body; it’s covered in some sort of black aura that engulfs it completely. Its bulking frame moves almost wraith like as its massive paws slam down on the wet earth._

_The sound its paws make vibrate in his ears as it connects with the drenched soil is a hollow ‘thud… thud… thud… thud’ echoing throughout the woods as the ground rattles all around it._

_Its muscles ripple down its neck, back, legs and hind legs as it tenses forward, letting out a low growl as it slinks closer and closer to him._

_Chris hands dig into the sodden ground as he realizes he can’t run. This, this thing, it’s going to rip him to shreds right here. It’s only a mere foot away from him as Chris takes a better look, the back of his head is pressed up against the tree as he stares right into the eyes of pure… evil._

_It’s as huge as a lion. Its body is covered in black fur, a bluish glow, almost like a fog emanates all over it. It snarls at him as it rolls its massive muscular shoulders making its way closer to him._

_Opening its enormous jaw, it snaps at him as Chris cries out and turns his head to the left as it’s hot breath singes his skin._

_Squeezing his eyes shut, Chris says a silent prayer, hoping this thing takes him quick._

_Hearing it rumble deep in its chest, he opens his eyes as an image of his grandfather flashes in his mind._

_His grandfather, kneeling down, finding him torn to bits and pieces. Tears streaming down his cheeks… screaming as he cradles his bloodied lifeless body to his chest._

_With his anger rising and turning his blood to red hot lava, he refuses to lay down and let this thing kill him. He’s not going to go down without a fight._

_Letting out a slow exhale through trembling lips, he swallows back the lump that’s caught in his throat as he stares up at it. His eyes settling on one specific feature. Its sharp canines. But not the normal dog canines. They’re longer. They remind him of a Viper’s fangs. Long and hooked._

_But what catches his attention more than anything, is its eyes._

_Staring back at Chris, are glowing red eyes._

_“Oh… fuck…” he breathes._

_Snapping at him, it’s jaw comes within a hairline of taking his face off._

_“Oh fuck! Oh shit! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” Chris screams out as he pushes himself further against the tree, tears streaking down his face. “P-please…” he whispers as he stares at it._

_Whatever this thing is, Chris knows he doesn’t have much time. It’s going to kill him._

_Gritting his jaw, he slowly moves his hand trying to get to his back pocket._

_His pocket knife._

_If he could get to his pocket knife, he might have a chance. A slim chance. A really slim chance of not getting his face mauled off._

_Slowly shifting his eyes from the thing directly in front of him, he follows his hand as he inches it closer to his pocket._

_Suddenly, screaming out in agony, Chris baby blues grow wide when he stares down at his hand. It’s completely covered by a massive black paw. It’s talons practically caging his hand under it._

_Searing flashes of pain shoot red hot heat up his arm as he feels his hand being consumed by fire._

_Growling out again, it snarls and snaps its jaw several times in Chris face as drool and spittle flies from its mouth and sprays Chris all over._

_“Okay! Okay! Fuck! Okay! Shit!” Chris cries out as he bangs the back of his head against the enormous Oak._

_Another low rumble rips through its throat as it snarls closer to his face. Chris can feel the heat of its breath against his skin._

_“Okay…” Chris sobs softly, trying to regulate his breathing, trying to get it under control. If this thing wanted him dead, he would’ve been dead a long time ago he realizes. “I-I… won’t try nothing s-stupid, as long as you don’t try to… eat me… d-deal?” Chris looks right into those flaming red eyes as those flaming red eyes look right back at him. “Y-you… you understand me… don’t you?”_

_The creature leans in on Chris, crowding into his space. It’s broad shoulders practically eclipsing him from any sliver of light. A wave of coldness slides off its body, surrounding Chris making him shiver under his drenched t-shirt._

_The creature huffs out a breath through its flared nostrils, snot spraying him as he turns his head in disgust._

_A low guttural growl forming within the belly of the beast has Chris staring at his own reflection in those burning red eyes._

_His breath hitches as he watches in utter horror as it pulls back its lips and the sound that rolls from its mouth chills him to the bone._

_Another snarl and snap rips from its jaw as it puts more pressure on Chris’ hand with its paw. The heat becoming completely unbearable now._

_“Ah… fuck…” Chris grits out. “Okay okay! I got it! No stupid shit!” he screams._

_A sound from his left has Chris head whipping around, it’s a low muffled sound, but he heard it clear as day._

_“What the fuck was that?”_

_The creature huffs out a hot tuff of air as it slowly removes its paw off of Chris hand, quickly looking at his hand, he brings it to his chest as he rubs his fingers trying to get the feeling back into them._

_The sound comes again and this time a bit louder. Looking back up to the creature, he asks again “The fuck is that?”_

_The creature takes several steps back as another low rumble rips through its throat. Throwing its head back as it opens its jaw wide and… howls._

_Chris can’t tear his eyes off of it as he hears the sound again coming from behind the tree._

_He watches intently for any sign of the creature ready to attack, but, instead what he sees is a tuff of cold air escape its mouth as he juts his massive jaw out. Strings of saliva drip from its canines as it lets out another agonizing howl. This one, raises every single baby fine hair on Chris’ body._

__Quickly pushing onto his knees, he crawls an_ d makes his way around the tree and freezes as his heart drops._

_“Oh… my… God…”_

**_~*~_ **

The soft whirling sounds push through the haze swirling all around him…

Pulling him, pulling at him to rejoin the world of the living…

_No… I like it here…_

_It’s dark here…_

_Dark and safe…_

His eyes flutter and struggle to open as a smoky black fog wraps its arms around him…

Pulling him back into the cold darkness…

_Yes… stay with me… Preot…_

_Yes… yes… with you…_

_No… no you can’t stay with him..._

_You can’t have him…_

_Chris…_

_Chris…_

_Christopher! Get up!..._

**_~*~_ **

A soft gasp escapes his lips as his eyes struggle to open. A garbled sound rises from his throat hot and scratchy, his tongue is dry and heavy in his mouth as he tries to move his lips.

A loud beeping from his left pulls at him as a sharp pain in his head jolts his eyes open sending pulsing white orbs drowning his vision. The dim overhead single lightbulb has him squinting as he fights to adjust his eyes to it. Slowly he begins to turn his head as everything starts to come into focus.

The first thing he notices…

He’s in a room. A small room. The bland faded blue walls are dingy and dirty. One window off to the left has condensation dripping all around it. It’s daylight out, but it’s late, that, he can tell. No chairs, no furniture but the twin bed he’s lying on with metal rails raised and attached to the sides.

A metal door with no doorknob stands off to the right.

It’s cold. Everything in this room screams cold and bleak.

Licking his lips, he can feel how dry and cracked they are. Trying to sit up he gets slammed back down by a wave of unrelenting pain all over his body.

“ _F-fuck_ …” he stutters out barely recognizing his own raspy voice.

The splitting pain in his head has him squeezing his eyes shut as a flood of memories come crashing down on him.

His shoulder…

_Let it go! Let it fuckin go!_

_No!_

_Fine!_

_The snapping sound of his shoulder being dislocated out of its socket…_

His chest…

_The blade slicing through muscle and bone…_

_Broken ribs, broken wrist, mangled thigh, busted nose…_

_“F-fuck_ … _oh_ _shit…”_ Chris groans out in pain.

A low humming sound begins to get louder as he looks over to the left, and for the first time he notices a clear plastic bag hanging from a hook protruding from the wall behind him.

His eyes follow several long clear tubes as they lead from the bag into the back of his hand; bits of clear tape secure a needle into his vein. But that’s not what catches his attention.

What catches his attention is the handcuffs attached to his wrist and attached to the railing.

Glancing at his other wrist, he yanks at the same handcuff as it pulls on the railing.

“ _Fuck_ …” Chris throws his head back on the hard pillow wincing as another earsplitting pain explodes in his head.

Hearing footsteps get closer to the door he snaps his head up as he hears voices just outside of the room. He can make out three distinctive voices. Two of them are going back and forth rapidly as their tones rise and fall.

The conversation is rushed and muffled, but, he can pick up bits and pieces here and there.

“Deschideţi uşa. Acum.” _(Open the door. Now.)_

“Nu puteţi face acest lucru. El este în stare nici sa vorbesc nimanui. El are nevoie de odihna.” _(You cannot do this. He is in no condition to speak to anyone. He needs to rest.)_

“Ha! El e treaz, da? El e suficient de odihnit. Acum, eu nu vă cer să deschideţi uşa, doctor. Eu sunt comandarea să deschideţi uşa. Acum. Sau te-arestat pentru nutrirea un criminal.” _(Ha! He’s awake, yes? He’s rested enough. Now, I am not asking you to open the door, Doctor. I am ordering you to open the door. Now. Or I will have you arrested for harboring a murderer.)_

“Pacientul meu, Locotenent. Aproape ca a murit. Unde este umanitatea?” _(He’s my patient, Lieutenant. He almost died. Where is your humanity?)_

“Aproape ca nu e mort. E in viata. Care este mai mult decât pot spune pentru sufletele necorespunzătoare a omorat. Usa, doctor.” _(Almost is not dead. He’s alive. That is more than I can say for the poor souls he killed. The door, Doctor.)_

“W-what?” Chris eyes grow wide as he begins to frantically yank on the handcuffs.

Halting his frantic efforts to break free of his handcuffs, he looks up and freezes as he watches the door open.

Two men dressed in cheap dime store suits walk in as a short round man with a receding hairline in a white lab coat shuffles behind them.

The Doctor, Chris guesses walks up to him and begins to check his vitals quickly as a nurse scuttles after him with a thermometer and hands it to him. Running it over his forehead, he furrows his brow as he whispers to the nurse off to his side.

Chris presses his lips together as he keeps his eyes on the two men glaring at him from the foot of the hospital bed.

The shorter man with his beady little weasel eyes glares down at him. His porn mustache covers his entire upper lip as a sneer curls the corners of his mouth. He drums his fingertips over the badge clipped onto his belt as he continues to stare at Chris.

The glare of his revolver tucked under his suit jacket glints under the dull lighting of the room.

The other man, younger, taller and a lot slimmer stands several inches away and behind weasel eyes. His head bowed down.

Chris instantly recognizes them as the local law from the woods. Weasel eyes was the one who gave the order to burn down the church.

“E de ajuns! Amândoi pot să plece.” _(That’s enough! You both can leave.)_

Chris doesn’t tear his eyes away from them as he hears the Doctor mumble under his breath and retreats out of the room with his nurse.

The soft thud of the metal door as it creaks shut is the only sound in the room as its echo bounces off the walls.

Weasel eyes smirks at him as he walks over to the dirty wet window. One hand in his pocket, the other tracing the dust on the windowsill with his fingertip.

“My name… is Lieutenant, Vasile Grecu. This is Officer Marcovici. Tell me… Mr. Warner. What is your real name?” His voice is laced heavy with a Romanian accent as he flicks his fingers free of dust.

Staring at him, Chris waits a beat before he responds “Michael… Warner.” His throat is extremely dry and raw as his fingers curl tightly into his palms.

“ _Hm_ … suit yourself. Your fingerprints were entered into the International Database of Fugitives. Within several hours… I will receive a phone call from Interpol, along with a picture and your real name. So I ask you again. Who are you?”

“Michael… Warner.” Chris responds flatly. His eyes never wavering off of the Lietenant.

A huff of air pushes out of the man’s lips as he turns his beady eyes on Chris. “You don’t want to play games with me. Mr.—“ waving his hand at Chris he chuckles “whatever your name is. If you haven’t noticed, you are not in… _America_ …” Grabbing a satchel, from the other man, he opens it and pulls out a manila file. Handing the satchel back to the younger man, he walks over to the bed.

His eyes slide down to where Chris’ wrist meet the handcuffs. Picking up the short chain, he pulls on it… hard. Leering at him as he watches Chris eyes flinch in pain.

“Are you comfortable, Mr. Warner?”

Chris smiles up at him, as he grits his teeth “Very… thanks for asking.”

Yanking on the short chain again, he smirks as he watches Chris glare up at him “We would not want you to believe, Romania is not… how you say—“ clicking his tongue to the roof of his mouth, the Lieutenant makes a show of thinking of the right word he’s searching for “ _aah_ yes… hospitable.”

Chuckling, Lt. Grecu slips out a picture as he holds it up to Chris to look at. “This woman, her name was Daciana Bucur. You cannot tell she’s a woman from this photograph can you Mr. Warner? How could you? She has no head… and her body, well, that was burnt beyond recognition.” Tossing it on the bed, he pulls out another one. This one is of the entire monastery from an outside view, it’s completely and uttering engulfed in flames. “What I want to know is… why? Why come all this way to Jiet, Romania to kill this woman. Was she your lover? Did you make a pact with her to kill her husband so she can run away with you back to America? Hm? Did she change her mind in those last moments, telling you that she could not go through with it? Wanted to stay with her husband and you, decided if you could not have her, then no one can.”

Shaking his head, Chris pushes through a wave of pain as he grins at the Lieutenant. “You… you really need to stop watching those fuckin Lifetime movies, Chief. I didn’t kill her.”

_He… did…_

_The boy with brunette hair, full pink moist lips and eyes as black as sin…_

_He… did…_

“You expect me to believe that? Your blood is all over those grounds. She must have put up quite a fight for you to land in a hospital. So this is how it will go, Mr… _Warner_ —“

The way he says his alias, Chris knows he has no clue what his real name is. That, at least is a welcoming comfort for him right now. But, he knows, the clock is ticking. He needs to get out of here and get out of here now. The longer he stays here, sooner or later, they’ll move him to a prison cell. He has to leave. The hospital is going to be his only means of escape.

Shoving the pictures back in the envelope, Chris casts a quick side glance at the other man. He quickly notices his demeanor. His lips are pressed into a hard line as he pushes himself up against the cold brick wall with a look of terror across his face. His fingers continue to knead the leather worn strap of the satchel as he glances up at Chris and swallows hard. His Adams Apple bobbing even harder.

Chris eyes the beads of sweat dripping down his forehead and soaking his collar as his body quivers slightly.

_He’s… scared…_

“You are going to be charged with murder in the first degree. Tomorrow morning you will be transported to a correctional facility. The Romanian government will not waste time with you Mr. Warner.” Pressing his palms on the railing, he looks down at Chris. Smirking, his yellow teeth gleam as his rancid cigarette breath washes over him. “You will rot in a four by four hole in the ground, never to see the light of day ever, again.”

Standing up, he stalks off as the Officer dips his head lower and follows the Lieutenant. Pausing, he holds the door open as he glances back at Chris “One more thing Mr. Warner. This, this I find even more interesting.” Pulling out a tattered collar from his pocket, he twists it in his hand, rolling it between his fingers as he looks intently at it. “Do you always kill wearing a clerical collar?” Glancing back up at Chris, his paper thin lips turn up into a cruel sneer as he walks out of the room.

“Shit… damn it.” Chris curses as he begins to pull and yank at his restraints. His heartbeat starts racing as the monitors begin to beep loudly. He needs to get out of here. Now. He’s yanking and trashing against the cuffs, pushing down the pain from his broken wrist as he feels his chest slowly tighten and grip his lungs as he struggles to breathe.

Chris doesn’t know how much time has passed, seconds maybe minutes as he desperately fights against his restraints. The broken bones in his wrist grinding against the cold metal has him clipping back a groan as he quickly scans the room for something, anything that he can use as leveraged to break the chains. Stopping suddenly, he hears soft padded steps approach the door.

The door swings open again as the nurse from earlier walks in, quickly tapping on some buttons, she silences the beeping machines. Running a hand down his shoulder, she offers a faint smile. “ _Ssshhh_ … is, okay… Mister Varner…” her accent is a lot thicker than weasel eyes.

Pulling out a syringe from her pocket, she looks towards the door briefly as she hovers her hand over the IV chamber.

“W-wait. Wait, what are you doing? What is that?” Chris is in full panic mode, struggling against the handcuffs as he watches her press the needle into the chamber, her thumb slowly pushing in the clear liquid.

Shaking his head, his heart rate gradually comes down as he instantly begins to feel light headed and dizzy. A hot tingly feeling begins to rise instantly from the tips of his toes up his calves, his thighs and blooms in his chest. His arms cease their frantic movements as they slump onto the bed, hanging limp and useless by his thighs.

The feeling of being weighed down by unseen forces has his head lulling back as he sluggishly tries to move. “Wha… wait…” Chris tries to speak but his tongue feels heavy in his mouth as he struggles to stay awake. “P—ple… noooooo…” Staring at her, his eyelids burn hot and his vision blurs. With one last desperate _“Nooooo…”_ his voice trails off and his eyes flutter close.

“Is okay. Sleep… now…”

**_~*~_ **

_Darkness opens its mouth as it swallows him up…_

_A black fog begins to wrap its tendrils around him as a sensation of floating envelopes him from all around…_

_Looking down, Chris watches as the fog begins to form… hands…_

_Arms snake up towards his chest as he feels the weight of a body pressed flushed to his back…_

_A whispered breath skims his earlobe as it sends shivers rushing down his body…_

_Preot…_

**_~*~_ **

His body jolts and rocks as his back hits something metal. Groaning, he tries to lift his head as another jolt shoots lightning sharp pains in his right side. His senses slowly begin to come into focus as the creaking sounds of metal and the rolling sounds of gravel force his eyes open.

Blinking several times, his blinded by a sliver of light. Lifting his hand, he rubs at his eyes, realizing he’s looking up at a gray canopy with a huge tear in it.

The huge hole serves as a funnel, forcing the frigid air into the confined space. Trembling, he closes his eyes as he feels a soft hand touch his shoulder.

Startled, he scuttles back as he looks at a woman kneeling down next to him.

 _“Ssshh_ , is… okay Mister. P-please. I, no mean, harm.”

Glancing around quickly, Chris takes in his surroundings once again. He’s not in the hospital room. He’s in the back of a truck. His eyes dart down to his hands, he’s not handcuffed.

Looking down at his body, he takes a quick inventory. He’s dressed. A dark green army jacket over a black hoodie, dark blue jeans, and black boots. Nothing he’s wearing is his.

His wrist is wrapped up and he feels bandages on his chest. Pushing up in a sitting position he winces as he feels the stretch of the burn in his thigh.

 _“Fuck_! _Aahhh_ … shit.” He clips out.

 _“Ssshh_ … no, no, no. _Eh_ , p-please… do not move so much. You are very hurt.”

Glaring up at her, Chris growls out “W-who the fuck are you!? Where are you taking me!?”

Lifting one hand out in front of her, she shakes her head as she taps her other hand to her chest.

“The nurse. You’re the fuckin nurse! You drugged me.” Chris anger rises as he forces himself to sit up more, pressing his back against the cold metal. The truck leaps and lurches forward as it bounces Chris back and forth. “Motherfucker! Goddammit!” The pain explodes all over his body as he slumps to the side gripping his ribs.

Slapping the inside of the truck, the woman calls out “Appa! Appa! El este treaz!” _(Papa!_ _Papa!_ _He’s_ _awake!)_

The truck immediately skids and slides as it veers off the road. The brakes screech loudly as they grind into the rotors viciously. Stopping, Chris palms behind him, thinking frantically of a means to escape as he hears both doors open from the cab. The crunching sound of gravel under hurried and heavy footsteps has Chris nerves on edge as he hears the clink clanking of the lock as the metal scrapes against the latch.

Bright light floods in as Chris lifts his bandaged hand to shield his eyes from the glare.

Blinking rapidly against the bright light flooding into the confined space, he gasps.

“Welcome back, to the world of the living… my, friend…”

His stomach drops to the floor as he looks back at the familiar face.

“Ioan?”

**~*~**

Nodding his head once, a sad smile slips across his weathered face. The years of hard labored easily etched on his skin like a beaten map.

The ice cold drizzle of rain drops flick into the back of the truck as it sprays Chris making him tremble slightly, his teeth clattering as he clamps down to stop the shivering.

Pulling himself into the truck, Ioan kneels down next to Chris, placing his bone frail hand over Chris’, he squeezes gently, reassuring.

“Maybe, next time, you will listen to me when I say, Petrilia… is no good.” A slight mist shines in the old man’s eyes as he gently squeezes the younger man’s hand. Careful not to inflict any more pain on him.

Looking at Ioan, Chris shakes his head once as he grins at him “For your information… I almost died in Jiet… not Petrilia. You gave me bad intel, pal.” Chris huffs out a laugh as he begins to cough. His chest burning with every full body tremor.

Tapping him on his back, Ioan grabs a water bottle passed to him by the nurse. “Here, here,” he says as he twists the plastic cap off for him “take a drink, please. Try to sip it and just sit back for a moment.”

Taking the water, he looks up at Ioan and the nurse sitting behind him, her hands are wringing the hem of her long over coat as she looks up at him. Grateful, he takes a long drink. Practically finishing up the bottle in one gulp. His parched throat welcoming the cold liquid as it temporarily quenches the fire in his belly.

Leaning his head back, he sighs deeply as his fingertips idly slide on the condensation from the bottle. His brain is fuzzy, clouded with too much noise. Too many questions.

The nurse. She drugged him.

“Why?” he breathes heavily as his head snaps up to glare at the woman. “Why did you drug me?” Glancing back at Ioan, he asks “What the hell is going on Ioan? H-how did you find me? Where are you taking me?”

Hearing the crunch of gravel shift underfoot, Chris bends his head a bit to get a better look as his hands weakly clench into fists, looking at him from the side of the truck is Officer Marcovici.

“No, no no no…” Ioan holds his hands up to Chris, noticing how he visibly tenses and goes on the defense.

“What the fuck is going on! Ioan?!”

“Please, let me explain.” The old man smiles warmly at Chris as he waves towards the Officer. “This is Nicolae, and this—“ pointing to the woman behind him, the nurse “is, Ilinca. My daughter and her, husband.”

Chris’ eyes sweep instantly from Ioan to the same timid man he met in the hospital, leaning against the side of the truck bay, sneaking peeks at him like a frightened animal.

“H-how, I-I…” his words get lodged in his throat, the cold air making it hard for him to breathe. His chest feels heavy and hot as he begins to feel the cold beads of sweat dripping down the back of his neck.

Patting Chris’ thigh, careful not to touch his injured leg, he motions to his daughter to give him the thermos next to her. Taking it from her hand, he uncaps it and pours some black liquid into the cap. Hot and steamy, the cold crisp air rises over it as hazy gray mist dissipates around it. “Please,” he holds his hand out, offering it to Chris “drink it.”

Glancing from Ioan to the hot cup in his offered hand, Chris nods and gently takes it.

Wrapping his fingers around it, the heat coming from the tin cup is welcoming and soothing.

And Christ, he really needs that right now.

“What is it?” he asks. Bowing his head so he can lift the cup to his lips, he gently blows on it. Taking a tentative sip, he swallows back the bitter taste as he grimaces. “Shit...”

“No. No, shit. Coffee. Good Romanian, very strong, black coffee.” Ioan chuckles.

“Fuckin cream and sugar next time Ioan.” Chris huffs a gruff laugh, another round of chest racking coughs sends shooting pains screaming in his lungs.

Quickly relieving him of the cup, Ioan passes it to his daughter as he moves next to Chris and begins to tap on his back. Slowly alternating between patting and soft soothing circular motions, trying to ease his coughing fit.

Squeezing his eyes, Chris waves his bandaged hand in front of his face. “I’m okay…” he coughs out once, twice more before he leans his head back. “Just, what’s going on… please, Ioan.”

Taking the coffee back from his daughter, Ioan passes it back to Chris “Drink. You will need the energy.” He says, a mask of worry laced underneath his tone.

“How bad?” Chris whispers. The very breath is pulled from his lips as he struggles to take a gulp of air in his already struggling lungs. He looks up at the nurse, Ilinca, waiting for her to respond.

Fidgeting under his gaze, she quickly peeks at her father, then her husband as she looks back at Chris. Shaking her head, she speaks quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. But it’s enough. Enough for Chris to hear her in their confined quarters. “You have two broken ribs, and one fractured. Your, left lung, is co—“ pressing her lips, she tries to recall the word in English. “prăbușit.” _(collapsed)_ Pointing to his shoulder, she makes a motion of rolling it back.

”Doctor Olaru, he set your shoulder back.” Dropping her eyes to his thigh and then to his abdomen, she nods as she looks back up at him ”The wound to your thigh was very deep. He stitched the muscles the best he can.” Breathing in deeply she exhales shakily as she swallows hard. ”You have a ruptured spleen. But, hospital, is not—„ she struggles to find the correct words but her nerves are fried as she peeks up at her father.

Nodding, Ioan encourages his daughter to continue. ”He needs to know, Ilinca. Tell him.”

"Is not, the best. The medicine is... not strong enough."

Pointing to his left side, she continues "You have internal... bleeding. He could not operate. These—” digging in her coat pocket she pulls out two small red plastic bottles. ”this one is antibiotics. And this one, is for pain. Is all I can get for you. I sorry.”

Handing them over to Chris, she bows her head.

Taking them in his hand, Chris looks at them and notices there’s only several pills in each bottle. Closing his eyes, he lets himself feel the pain his body is screaming at him. Chris knows the gravity of his situation. He feels it in his bones as death itself seeps through his veins. He knows he’s on borrowed time. By all accounts he should be fucking dead. And he will be, unless he can stop his internal bleeding. But right now, shit isn’t looking too good for him. He knows what she’s saying is true. He knew it the minute he woke up in that room. The lack of medical attention was apparent the instant he took in his surroundings.

Breathing in, he winces through clenched teeth as a sharp pain shoots up his left side. "It's okay—" he breathes as he looks up at her, his face pinching in pain. “thank you.”

“Please, take a red pill now. Is the antibiotic. I could only grab seven of those, the white pill, is for pain.”

Chris’ mind is a jumbled mess. His heartbeat is racing and his fingers continue to slip from the bottle, trying to push down and twist the cap off.

Gently tugging it from his hand, Ioan opens it and hands one to Chris as he urges him to drink the rest of the coffee. Shifting to sit on his bottom, he grabs a knapsack behind him. Opening up the flap, he pulls out a brown paper bag and opens it. Lifting a sandwich, he unwraps it and hands it to Chris.

“Eat. You have to eat. Eat and drink.” Glancing at the open desolate road beyond the truck doors, he looks back at Chris “The temperature is dropping. It will get colder soon. You need to keep warm, and gain some strength my friend.”

Sighing, Chris takes the offered meal as he looks from Ioan to his daughter and to his son-in-law. Nodding he concedes. “Chris… my name… is Chris Evans.” He breathes, the beginning of tears wet his thick long lashes.

Placing his withered, bony hand on top of Chris’, he squeezes gently. Smiling at him, he pats his hand. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Chris Evans. You,” Ioan places his hand on Chris chest, over his heart “you are doing God’s work.”

“Ha ha…” Chris huffs out a laugh as a stabbing pain shoots up his back. His tears finally streak down his chilled cheeks leaving white tracks in their wake. “Yeah. And look where it’s gotten me.” He sniffles as snot trickles from his nose. Wiping it with the back of his bandaged hand, he looks away from Ioan and those trusting and warm eyes.

Faith. That’s what Chris sees in them. Faith.

In what? Not in him. Definitely not in him. Chris knows he’s an empty shell of a man. He lives his days and nights for the mission and the kill. It’s true what Father Bryan said. He’s stopped caring a long time ago trying to save the vessel. He doesn’t even bother to try most times. He just kills the thing squatting inside them. He doesn’t give a fuck anymore. They’re already dead anyway. They just don’t know it yet.

He can’t even remember when he started feeling this way. Maybe, he’s always felt like that and he just never noticed because after so many missions, after so many kills… it slowly ate at him. Slowly chipping away at his soul, always on his heels. One step behind him, waiting in the darkness. Waiting to swallow him whole. But, with every kill, he finds himself falling deeper and dragged into that sweet darkness. The darkness that covets him, beckoning him to stay just a little bit longer.

Chris knows, hell, he’s read the bible a thousand times over. A man’s strength is in his faith.

His faith in God.

A blind faith.

_You follow him… like lambs to a slaughter…_

Shut up! Shut the fuck up! Chris wants to scream at the voice in his head. _His_ … voice.

_You’re expendable you know… your kind…_

No! No, I’m not. Get out of my fuckin head!

Fresh tears spring from his eyes as he tries to get a grip on himself. He _does_ have faith. He believes in what he’s doing, his life’s calling. This is what he was born to do. If not him, then who?

Every day, since he could remember, being a little boy, he’s read from his favorite bible passages in the morning and at night. Words of faith, sacrifice, and undying devotion. He believed in them so much that they _were_ the very air he breathed. They offered him comfort and guidance in _His_ teachings.

But, now, he struggles to find peace in those same words as he begs _Him_ for forgiveness every time his lips wrap around the bottle. Asking him for strength where he has failed whenever he finds himself in one too many seedy motel rooms with a joint pressed between his lips and a paid whore riding his cock.

No matter how many times he’s screamed to the heavens to give him a sign, anything, to make him believe he’s doing _His_ will... his only answer is silence.

 _He_ … never offers him the solace he so desperately needs to quiet the noise in his head.

“Chris, Chris, look at me, my friend.”

Opening his eyes, Chris looks up a Ioan. Sniffling quickly, he brushes the tears from his cheeks as he tries to compose himself. Looking down at the crushed sandwich in his hand he mutters _“M’sorry_ , about the sandwich.”

“Is luncheon meat. _Eh_ , it will survive.” Slowly rubbing Chris shoulder, Ioan sighs as he glances over at Nicolae still hovering by the side of the cab. “Nicolae, why don’t you get on the scanner. See if there are any reports. Ilinca, go with him, please.”

Nodding at her father, she looks up a Chris shyly as she moves quietly and exits the truck.

Chris watches as they both disappear out of sight.

Rubbing his stubble with his broken wrist, Chris swallows down the rising lump he’s had growing in his throat since he woke up. Which in all honesty, he doesn’t even know what day it is? But that doesn’t even matter, what matters is he needs answers and going round and round in his own head isn’t helping much of anything right now.

“Ioan, what happened? Your daughter, she was the nurse in the hospital. She drugged me. Your son-in-law, he’s a cop. What the fuck is going on?”

Swallowing hard, Ioan grabs the thermos and pours himself a cup. Sipping it, he blows the steam away. A cold chills settles in the cab as Chris looks wearily at him. Brows stitched together in apprehension.

“Ioan, please…”

Nodding his head, he says “I was sitting in my rocking chair, when the call came over the scanner that there was a fire in the old Monastery in Jiet. I knew, I knew… it was… _you_. I knew you found the… Demon, there. I stood for almost an hour listening to police and fire volunteers and the sirens. Then a voice came over the scanner and said, there is a male, in his late twenties, early thirties, barely alive with multiple injuries being transported to the hospital. I knew which one, these—“ he waves his hand in the air as he takes another sip of coffee savoring it “small towns only have one hospital between them. So I called Ilinca and drove to her home. Nicolae was not there, so I told her everything, when her husband came home, I told him we have to help you.”

Finishing up his coffee, he pours himself a little more as he tops Chris’ off.

“He asked me if you stopped the Demon. I could not answer that. I told him, we have to get you out of the country. Ilinca was able to drug you without any suspicions and I was able to go in dressed as hospital worker and wheel you out through the morgue. No one looked twice.”

Staring into Chris eyes, Ioan’s voice drops “Lt. Grecu, he is like a rabid dog on a hunt. For him, you killed that woman. Case closed. In a Romanian jail, you will never see the light of day again. I told Nicolae to act fast, go to your hotel room, make it look like a robbery. Leave your clothes but take the important things.” Pulling a satchel out from under a bench he hands it to Chris.

Chris eyes grow wide “My laptop?” he breathes. His hand digs in the bag and pull out his wallet and keys. Digging in deeper, he shoves cable cords and chargers out of the way looking for something. His heart sinks as he looks up at him “Ioan, I had—“

“The dagger.”

“Yeah… where is it?”

“I-I could not get it. Lt. Grecu has it under lock and key.” Nicolae speaks up as both men turn to look at him and Ilinca.

“Fuck… I-I _have_ to get it back.” Chris heart shatters as he thinks about his most prized possession sitting in some goddamn shoebox in a locker. Looking up at the old man, Chris’s eyes are swimming in unshed tears. “Ioan, I have to get it back.” He whispers.

“Not today my friend. To go back to Jiet, is to sign your death certificate.” Shaking his head at Chris, Ioan sighs “I am sorry…”

“Ioan,” Nicolae interrupts “we have to move. Lt. Grecu is on his way to the hospital.” Glancing at Chris, he says “We have to move… now.”

Chris instantly pales. “How long do we have before he calls it in?”

“Forty-five minutes, an hour tops.” Nicolae replies as he loses all color and looks about fifty shades of ghostly gray.

“Let’s go.” Ioan throws a look at Chris as Nicolae closes the truck doors and jumps into the driver seat, immediately turning the key in the ignition as it roars to life, screeching and skidding across the asphalt.

 _“Ugh…”_ Chris clutches his side as the truck bounces and rattles from side to side on the narrow winding road. “Where are we going?”

“The Romanian border. I have a cousin; he is a railcar conductor. Delivering coal from the mines.” Glancing at his watch, Ioan looks up at him. “In four hours and thirty minutes, he is going to refuel in Szeged, Hungary. He will cross into Slovakia, Czech Republic and his last stop is Dresden, Germany. In car thirty-seven, in the far left corner, all the way in the back… there is a blanket, some food and water.” Placing his arthritic hand on Chris’ shoulder, he smiles softly at him. Bowing his head, Chris can tell the man is struggling to find the right words. Shaking his head quickly, he sniffles as he finds the strength to continue “You have to get on that train. You have to get back to America, Chris… please… you have to get on that train.”

Nodding, Chris understands the risk Ioan and his family are putting themselves in because of him. What they’re risking for him is beyond dangerous. If they get caught aiding and abetting a suspect in a murder, they’ll be arrested… and worse. He can’t let them put themselves in jeopardy because of him.

“Ioan… I can’t ask you to do this. Please, stop. Just stop the truck.” Chris bangs on the side of the truck as it immediately screeches and halts to a frantic stop. Clenching his jaw, he grabs his satchel and pushes himself up with his good hand against the wall. Pushing the double metal doors open, Chris grabs ahold of the side rail as he hops off. Wincing in pain as he stands shakily, he’s hit with ice cold freezing rain.

“Chris! Chris! What are you doing?!” Ioan’s voice rises in panic as Ilinca and Nicolae come running around from the front of the truck.

“Papa?” Ilinca glances anxiously from Ioan to Chris and back to her father.

Chris stutters in a breath as he slowly releases it. The air escaping his lips is gray and misty as the cold seeps into his chest, igniting the pain from his collapsed lung.

“Ioan, just… just go. Just go. Go on ge—“ His lungs hurt too much as another round of coughing fits rip through his chest making him double over as he spits up blood. His hand quickly darts up to cover his mouth as more blood comes up.

Grabbing Chris by his shoulder, Ioan and Nicolae put his weight on them as they walk him back to the truck. Leaning him against the bay door, Ioan takes the water bottle Ilinca is handing him.

Ioan shifts his eyes from Chris to his daughter and son-in-law. He doesn’t need to use words to ask them for some privacy right now as they nod and retreat back to the front of the truck.

“Chris…”

Holding up his hand, Chris stops him in his tracks. “No. No, Ioan. I can’t.” Chris’ bandaged hand is clutching his stomach as he struggles to breathe through his mouth. The sting of the cold air drying the blood and spit to his lips as he tries to wipe them clean with the back of his hand. “Just, leave. Please, just leave me here… and go back home. P-please Ioan, I can’t.”

Chris’ voice is wrecked and quivering. The pain in his wrist is throbbing, shooting red hot pain up his forearm into his shoulder as he’s gripping the railing to keep him from dropping to the ground.

“Chris…” The old man calls out to him, soft and soothing almost childlike in his tone. “You cannot what?”

Taking in a short breath, Chris bows his shoulders as he drops his head.

The weight of everything that’s happening, the finality of it all, comes crashing into him like a head-on collision.

“I can’t ask you to do this. You’re risking everything to help me. If Grecu catches up—“

“Then I will face my punishment like I have faced everything else in my life.” Ioan quickly cuts him off before Chris can say another word. “You are not asking me for anything. I am helping you because it is the right thing to do.”

“Is this the right thing to do?! _Huh_? And what about Ilinca and Nicolae? Are you doing right by them Ioan? Dragging them into my fuckin hell?! Shit’s going south for me real quick. I can’t help you—“ Chris is visibly shaking as he pushes himself to stand up, hobbling forward he glares at the old man. “or watch over them if I can barely stand on my own goddamn feet!”

Inhaling deeply, Ioan removes his glasses as he pulls a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and rubs the lenses gently. “Do you know the night I picked you up from Sibui…” Ioan begins “I was… was not going to go out. I spent the day at the market, sold one piece of furniture. It was a hand carved writing desk. Did not get what I asked for but, you take what you can when you have nothing to begin with.” The old man looks down the desolate mountain road as he wrings out his fingers trying to keep them warm against the frigid air.

“By the time I came home it was very late. I was tired and, sleepy, but, I am an old man so…” exhaling he shifts his whole frail frame to face Chris now. The look that sweeps across his face is nothing less than pure sincerity. It practically radiates off him in waves.

Chris can only look at him as he recounts that night only several days ago.

“I sat down on my favorite chair, with a cup of hot tea and turned on the television. I dozed off here and there but was awaken by this… how you say… pull? Yes, pull. I turned my radio scanner on and listened to the airport reports. Only one plane was arriving, coming from New York City.”

Chris heart plummets as he hears this. It was his plane.

“I—“ Ioan looks away from Chris momentarily as he inhales a stuttering breath. Looking back up to Chris, his eyes are swimming in tears. “I knew, that I needed to get to Sibui. Knew that there was someone on that plane, very, very special. Very important.” He tries to keep his voice calm, but fails miserably as he looks at the young man standing in front of him. “I believe I broke several traffic laws that night.” He chuckles. “But, it was you, Chris, it _is_ you.” Pointing at Chris, he steps closer to him “You may not believe me, but you _are_ doing God’s work.”

Lowering his head, because he can’t. He just fucking can’t bear to face him, the way Ioan’s looking at him with so much conviction and… belief when he doesn’t deserve any of it.

He knows what he came to Romania to do, but he failed. He failed those people but they were already dead, he couldn’t save them. He could’ve saved that woman. Her screams and pleas still pound in his head. He could’ve saved her but he was too blinded by his rage and hatred towards that… that fucking thing! He went after him instead of her! He watched her die! He let her die and he didn’t care!

“I let her die! I let her die! He told me!” Chris completely shatters as he breaks down with full body wrecked sobs as tears gush down his face dripping from his chin. “He told me I choose wrong! I didn’t care, I didn’t care about her I wanted to get to him! I failed her, I failed them all!”

Grabbing Chris into his bone thin arms, Ioan wraps him in all the warmth he can give him. Placing one hand on the back of Chris neck he lets the younger man cry it out as he clings to him.

He doesn’t know how long they’re standing there like that, two men, from different sides of the world. Clutching onto each other. The older man soothing the younger, tortured man. Ioan doesn’t have to say it with words, doesn’t need to describe what Chris is feeling. He knows.

His sobs slowly fade away as he sniffles against the old man’s jacket. Pulling away from his embrace, Chris wipes his nose with the sleeve of his jacket. “I-I’m sorry…” the words tremble out of his lips, shame wrapping around them like a coiled snake as he keeps his eyes diverted to the cold ground.

“Look at me Chris. Look at me.”

Slowly raising his head, Chris does as he’s told.

“This—“ Ioan waves around him, his own tears streaking down his face “everything that has happened, is not your fault.”

“But, the woman—“ Chris breath hitches as he tries to force the words out.

Grabbing Chris by the back of the neck, Ioan forces him to look straight in the eyes. “That woman, was already dead. Nothing you could have done would have saved her. You are missing the bigger picture here Chris and not asking the one simple question. Why?”

Chris stares at the old man with a stunned look on his face as if he was just slapped back into reality. Shifting his eyes to the left a hair, he swallows hard as his brain is flooded with the images of a brunette boy with tears in his eyes.

“Why?” Chris hears himself echo.

Nodding Ioan whispers back “Why? _Hm?_ Demons, do one thing. They possess the weak, the tortured, the faithless. They destroy from the inside out. No rhythm or reason, just to—“ Ioan motions down his body as he lets go of Chris and leans back “consume. Demons do not think; they just destroy life. They want what they can never have. Life. But this, this boy, Demon, whatever it is… there _is_ reason behind what he is doing. He left you for dead and still… you stand. Stop blaming yourself for something that was already destined to happen. Just as you were destined to come to Romania to try and stop him. You cannot stop the inevitable. No matter how hard you try. He is out there and you need to find him, now. So… get your ass on that goddamn truck. You have a train to catch.”

**_~*~_ **

Slumping against the trunk of a tree, his breath comes out in short strangled tuffs of air as he gets slammed with another spasm of coughing fits. This one worse than the others as his lungs burn and pound against his broken ribs. Spitting out blood, he licks his lips as he grimaces at the bitterness of it.

Sliding down to the wet hard ground, he leans his head back as he glances at the watch Ioan gave him. He’s been running through the woods for over three hours. The fresh falling snow continues to slow him down as his feet slip and lose their grip every so often due to the thin sheets of ice under it.

Pulling a water bottle from his satchel, Chris barely sips it. He’s freezing and he’s running a fever. A high fever by the feel of it. He’s completely drenched from his sweat making the thin hoodie cling to him as the chill digs deeper into his bones. Closing his eyes, he feels himself slipping. The invisible threads of sleep pulling him down, offering him that blissful rest that he so desperately needs.

“Just… just a couple of minutes…” his words trail off as his head slowly sags forward.

**_~*~_ **

_“Grandpa! C’mon! Why not? Please!” he looks from the couch, back to his grandfather pacing back and forth. The old man is fuming with anger at the young boy._

_“Grandpa! Please…” Chris begs as he moves towards the couch._

_Grabbing his grandson by the arm, he yanks him back forcefully as he drags him to the other side of the small living room. “Are you crazy boy!” the old man spits out as he glares at him. “Do you have any idea what that is?! Do you?! How dare you bring that thing into our home!”_

_Chris stares at his grandfather in complete shock. No matter what he’s ever done in his life, he’s never yelled at him like this before. Rubbing his arm, he looks away from him and back to the couch. Taking a step away, he’s stopped short in his tracks._

_“Don’t you dare move.” The warning comes off so suddenly that Chris doesn’t even know where it came from. Taking another step forward, Chris hears it again as he glances up at his grandfather. A cold, blank stare fixates on Chris as he repeats his words “I said, don’t you move one step.”_

_He stops, frozen in place as he finally notices what his grandfather has in his hand. The glint of the dagger caught in the shadow of the light. All the air rushes out of Chris' lungs as he watches him like a slow motion movie as he begins to walk towards the couch._

_“Nooooooo…” Chris breathes. All the blood coursing through his body instantly turning to ice water as he snaps out of it and side-steps his grandfather, beating him to the couch as he lunges for it and runs out the back door._

_“Chris no! Chris! Christopher!”_

**_~*~_ **

Heaving in a rush of cold wind and rain into his lungs, Chris eyes fly open as he digs his hands into the wet, cold frozen earth and shoves himself up immediately, grabbing his satchel, he swings it around his chest as he breaks off running, pushing through the pain.

_**_~*~_ ** _

Doubling over, his body is on fire as he spits out more blood. Wiping his brow, the sleeves of his jacket are drenched with sweat, spit and blood. Looking back up he watches as the train begins to slowly lurch forward on the tracks.

“No… no no no no no no no. Fuck no!” running as fast as he can, he breaks through the tree line as he watches the train numbers pass by him. Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty. “No! Fuck no! Wait! Wait!” Jumping over train tracks, he trips and tumbles as he watches more cars pass him by. Thirty-one, thirty-two. Thirty-three.

Stumbling on his knees, Chris forces himself on his feet as he feels the rush of wind from the train continue to pick up speed. Glancing down several rail cars, he sees it.

Car thirty-seven.

He’s got one shot at this. If he fucks up and misses it, he’s a dead man.

Pushing with all what’s left of his strength, Chris runs alongside of the cars as he watches and times them moving forward.

Thirty-four, thirty-five, thirty-six.

Thirty-seven.

Screaming, Chris throws himself forward, his chest connects with the hard wood train floor as he wraps his fingers around the side railing of the open door. The pain explodes in his chest as he feels a fresh break in another rib. Pulling himself up, he drags himself away from the open door as he rolls over and drops on his back.

The amounts of excruciating pain rattling his body is enough to kill ten men, let alone him.

He knows he can’t lay here. Out in the open to the elements. The police are still out there. And by now, Grecu knows he’s gone, which means there’s an APB out for him. He needs to get to Germany. Once he’s in Germany, he knows what he has to do.

Rolling over to his side, he groans out as he feels the bones in his wrist crack some more as he puts pressure on his hand and pushes himself up on his knees. The rocking of the train has him stumbling forward as he grabs the railing again and slides the door shut and latches the lock in place.

Leaning down, he has no more strength left as he hooks his finger on the strap of his satchel. Pulling it off his shoulder, he drags it across the floor behind him.

Chris feels like he’s going to throw up or pass out.

Weaving between barrels of coal, he drags himself to the far left corner in the back of the car. And just like Ioan said, there’s a blanket and a brown paper bag. Leaning against the wall, he slides down as he shoves the knapsack and satchel off to the side and grabs the blanket.

His fingers fumble weakly as he tries to unfold it. “C’mon…” he whispers in a voice that’s raspy and wrecked as he blinks the tears away and his hands continue to tremble.

Something so simple has him struggling with it as he finally unwraps it and curls himself around it.

Sighing, he lets himself breathe a little as his eyelids droop close. Slipping down into the cold bleak floor, he gives himself over to the inferno boiling him alive from within as he finally succumbs to his injuries…  

**_~*~_ **

_“Chris… Chris…”_

_“You need to get up…”_

_Opening his eyes slowly, his vision is blurred as it sluggishly comes into focus._

_He stares into eyes as blue as his, eyes that he hasn’t seen in over six years._

_“Grandpa?” Chris stutters as his stomach drops. Glancing around him quickly, Chris takes in his surroundings, noticing he’s still in the rail car._

_Nodding slowly at him, he smiles. But it’s not one of the many smiles Chris committed to memory so many years ago. It’s… different…_

_“H-how?” he begins as tears well up his baby blues._

_Shaking his head, he looks into his grandson’s eyes. “It doesn’t matter how. What matters is… is that you need to get up, son.”_

_“I—I can’t…” Chris bows his head as his tears pool and streak down his face. Stuttering in a breath he cries “I failed Grandpa. I failed you and I’m so sorry.”_

_“Oh, Chris…” his grandfather reaches up and palms his face._

_The warmth of his grandfather’s palm against his cheek has Chris nuzzling into it. Inhaling deeply, he can smell the faint scent of licorice on his fingertips. That scent would always bring a sense of calmness over him when he was younger. It always meant love and warmth and protection to Chris._

_No matter where he would go, no matter what he had to do, he always found his way back to his Grandfather. And for just that little bit of time, he’d lock all the bad outside that door and collapse onto his knees. Face and hands bowing down and finally letting go his tears as his Grandfather held him tight, stroking his sweat drenched hair, strong withered hands rubbing his strained muscles trying to clean the blood off his clothes._

_Chris knew he was home… even if it was fleeting._

_“Is that what you think? Hm? That you failed me?” His heart clenches and pains him as he stares lovingly at his grandson. His own tears welling up and misting the corners of his eyes._

_“That could never happen, son. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me, and I thank God for you. For bringing you back to me every day.” Cupping his face, he thumbs away at the tears sliding down Chris’ chilled paling cheeks._

_“So don’t you ever think that. Okay. Ever. I love you,” his breath hitches as he feels his own cheeks moisten with his tears, swallowing down the lump in his throat, he smiles as he grabs Chris by the shoulders, wrapping him up in his arms, giving him all his warmth as he presses a kiss into his temple and whispers “so, so much.”_

_Grabbing and clutching desperately at him, Chris clings to his Grandfather as he sobs uncontrollably. Full body shudders as he digs his fingers into the material of the old man’s jacket. Inhaling his sweet scent of pipe tobacco. And that, that sends another round of fresh tears cascading down his face, dripping off his trembling chin. “I-I… I love—love you too, Gra-grandpa…”_

_Breathing into Chris hair, he slowly pulls away but holds onto his shoulders. Giving them a gentle but strong reassuring squeeze as he smiles wide at him. His eyes glossing over as he nods and chuckles “Do you remember that day, it was week before you turned six and I was called in to pick you up from school. You got expelled for three days for getting into a fight with that boy. What was his name?”_

_Chris eyes grow wide as he sniffles back some tears and chuckles himself “Umm… Bryce. His name was Bryce.”_

_“That’s right, Bryce. He was bigger than you wasn’t he? But, you kicked his ass.”_

_“I was so scared Grandpa, thought you were gonna be mad at me.” Chris glances up at him through wet and matted lashes._

_“No. Never, you stood up to him for trying to bully you. I was so damn proud of you, boy. So, I decided to give you your birthday present earlier.”_

_“My bicycle…” Chris breathes as he remembers that day clear as if it was just yesterday._

_“Yes. Nineteen fifty Schwinn Panther. Hot rod red with tassels and a horn. Had the sweetest chrome wheel covers, brown leather wrapped handlebars and a matching seat. And oooh weee…” the old man lets out a whistle “red tires to match. You should’ve seen the look on your face when I wheeled it out of the garage.”_

_“I couldn’t believe it was for me Grandpa. God… I loved that bike. It was a beaut.”_

_“Yes it was. I had you hop on, gave you a couple circles around the driveway and let you go.”_

_Laughing hard now, Chris wipes at his tears as he replays that day in his mind. “Yeah, and I bust my ass the minute you let me go.”_

__Tapping_ _Chris_ _’_ _thigh_ _gently_ _he_ _lowers_ _his_ _head_ _so_ _he_ _can_ _look_ _directly_ _in_ _his_ _eyes_ _“_ _Yes_ _you_ _did_ _,_ _but_ _,_ _you_ _didn_ ** _’_** _t_ _cry_ _._ _You_ _sat_ _there_ _frustrated_ _because_ _you_ _wanted to learn and ride the hell outta that bike right there and_ _th_ en **.** You were so mad… you didn’t want to get up from the ground.”_

_“I was pissed. Didn’t wanna let that bike beat me.”_

_“You always were a stubborn little shit.” The smile on the old man's face as his eyes shine bright has the wrinkles around his mouth and around his eyes knitting together. His love pours from his very soul for his grandson as he lovingly looks at him.  
_

_“Yes Sir, I know…”_

_“Yeah, but you got up. After you got tired of just sitting there. You got up and got back on that bike, and you fell again, and again. But you kept getting up and getting back on that bike and by the time it was dark, you were leaving dust trails up and down that driveway. I was so proud of you Chris." His voice breaks as he stutters in a long shaky breath "I am... so... so proud of you, son."_

_Glancing up at his grandfather, Chris sees pure adoration in the old man’s eyes. He can feel his love washing over him like warm rays of the sun enveloping him in love and light, pushing back the darkness._

_Fuck, not only can he feel it but he can see it too._

_His grandfather is cast in an ethereal white glow all around him. It’s beautiful… it’s the most beautiful sight Chris has ever seen. The feeling of love and protection surrounds him and engulfs him like a cocoon. And suddenly, all of Chris’ pain is gone. He doesn’t feel it anymore._

_Glancing behind him, he turns and looks back at his grandson “I don’t have much time Christopher, and neither do you. So I need you to listen, okay? There’s things you don’t know. Things..." he glances down, almost ashamed as he shakes his head once and sighs heavily. Looking back up, he stares at his grandson, tight lipped and an almost stern look in his deep blues. "I tried to stop, but, I was a fool. I was an old fool to think I could stop the inevitable. I see that now.”_

_“Grandpa…" Chris sobs as he grasps his grandfather "I-I don’t understand. What are you talking about?”_

_“I tried to protect you. No matter how many times—“ shaking his head once, he cuts himself off as he squeezes his eyes shut, tearing himself away from his grandson’s gaze. “It doesn’t matter anymore.” Looking back up at Chris, he stares at him for what seems like a lifetime before he whispers “There’s a war coming, Christopher. Many innocent lives will be lost. You… you have to lead the fight against them. So I need you to get up. Now, son. Get up and fight! Do you hear me? Christopher?! Get up! Get up Christopher get up!”_

**_~*~_ **

The train comes to a jolting stop as the breaks screech loud and vibrate in the rail car. Chris inhales deeply, gasping for air as he shakes the sleep off of himself and shoves the blanket off to the side as a new found burst of adrenaline surges through him. Placing a hand on his head, the throbbing pain in his temple feels like someone took a jackhammer to his brain.

A distant sound of banging and clanking against iron, has Chris crawling away from his secret hideaway. Standing groggily, he stumbles forward and slowly unlatches the lock as he slides open the door. Peeking his head out, he’s hit with a fresh wave of arctic air as the late night moon shines bright against the dark sky.

The sounds of crunching gravel immediately catch his attention as he looks down the row of trains cars. His eyes focus in the dark as they catch a glimpse of two flashlights bouncing back and forth off the white caliche coming towards him.

“Shit…” Chris falls back against a barrel as he yelps out in pain. Turning around quickly, he limps over to the corner and rolls the blanket and shoves it in his knapsack along with the brown unopened paper bag. Grabbing his satchel, he throws it around his neck as he shrugs on the knapsack and quietly opens the other rail door on the opposite side.

Sitting down, he drops as quietly as he can to the ground as he clips back a wave of pain shooting up his thigh. _“Fuck_ … _me_.”

Hobbling between cars, he drops low as he leaves the sounds of voices and the flashlight beams behind him. Moving and weaving on the train tracks, Chris squeezes through a hole in the fence as he makes his way out of the train yard.

Breaking out into a run, he drags his injured leg and pushes harder to get as much distance as he can from the yard. Passing through an underpass, Chris slows down, limping to a leisurely pace. Even in this late hour he needs to keep an eye out.

His body is beyond the breaking point, numb and stiff as cold tuffs of air escape his lips.

Glancing up, he strains to see the lamp post across the street. Looking both ways, he watches as headlights move towards him. Stepping in the middle of the street, the car slams on its breaks as the driver throws open his door and yells at him.

“Bist du verrückt?! Ich könnte Sie getroffen haben?!” (Are you crazy?! I could have hit you?!)

Waving him off, Chris digs into his pocket and pulls out an envelope full of cash.

“Tausend Dollar. Bargeld. Amerikanisches Geld. Wenn du mich nach Leipzig bringen.” (A thousand dollars. Cash. If you take me to Leipzig.) Chris tries to stand but his body sways back and forth as another full body tremble rakes through him. His sweat drenching him completely as he feels his fever spike again.

The man instantly stops his rant as he glances from Chris to the envelope in his hand. Reaching for it, Chris pulls it back “Leipzig.” He repeats through ragged breaths.

Looking around, the man quickly nods and motions to his car. Limping over to it, Chris climbs into the passenger seat as the driver gets back in.

“I don’t want to know what you did, Mister.” He says in his broken English as he shifts his eyes up and down Chris’ body. “I don’t want any trouble. I just need the cash.”

“Drive.” Chris orders him as he feels the car shift into gear leaving the rail yard behind them.

“We are in Dresden, Mister. Leipzig is over one hundred miles away. Do you have an address where I can take you?”

“Yeah. But right now, I need you to drive faster…”

**_~*~_ **

Walking up the last flight of stairs to the fifth floor, Chris pulls himself up as he white knuckles the railing. He made the man drop him off two blocks away down an alley as he tossed him the envelope stuffed with cash.

The first rays of early morning light begin to filter in through the filthy hallway window as Chris kneels down and removes a corner of a rotted floor board on the last step. Slipping his hand in, he pulls out a small match box.

Placing his hand on the wall, he pushes himself up as he takes in a shaky breath. His bandaged wrist aches like hell as he tries to hold it steady long enough for him to pull the key from inside.

Steeling a breath, Chris presses his lips as he holds his bandaged wrist steady, his entire body is shuddering as he groans out in pain. Bringing his hand to the lock, he pushes it forward as the key slips off to the side, scraping against the face-plate “Fuck… p-please… c’mon…p-please…” he silently begs, fighting back the tears pooling at the corners of his eyes as he attempts to slip the key in several more times. His wrist is literally on fire and he knows he’s inflicted more damage to it within the last seventy-two hours.

Pressing his forehead to the wooden door frame, he sucks in several quick breaths of air that do nothing but ignite his lungs as he tries to calm down his shaking. “Okay… c’mon Evans… you’ve come this far… c’mon… c’mon… p-please…” Lifting his hand, he wraps his fingers around the bandage, pushing forward, missing the key hole again. His entire body is rattling inside his skin and his vision is starting to blur again as spots begin to dance in front of his eyes.

Letting go of his wrist, he lifts it slowly as his broken bones grind against one another. Biting down a wave of pain, he tries not to swallow the bile threatening to spew out of his mouth as he pushes forward one more time.

Tapping the key against the slot, he slides it slowly until it slips into the chamber, surging forward, it latches as he turns it once.

The click of the lock unlocking is the sweetest sound Chris has ever heard in his thirty years of walking the earth.

Pushing the door open, he drags himself in as he pulls the key from the lock and throws it on the little foyer table. Pushing the door close, he locks it as he pulls his satchel off and drops it on the floor. Shrugging loose of the knapsack, he lets it fall too as he walks into the sparsely furnished one room apartment.

A full size bed sits in the corner, no fancy headboard nor foot-board, no plush goose down feather comforter, no overabundance of soft pillows… just a simple bed. On the opposite side of the wall, a small refrigerator and a two burner stove sit nestled in-between a single sink. The brown yellowed tile going up and down the wall is completely cracked with several missing pieces from a leak not so long ago. The crinkled newspaper and duct tape Chris had placed on the broken window the last time he was here, has rolled off and hangs limply off the edge of the sill now. The bits of shadow it casts across the hardwood floor reaches towards him like clawed hands.

The only thing separating the tiny kitchenette and his bedroom is a worn out dingy green broken loveseat. The permanent stains and the springs pushing up through the ripped up cushions only add to the feeling of despair that permeates throughout the apartment.

A cold chill settles in his bones as he struggles to unzip his jacket. Afraid to sit down for the fear of not being able to get up, he leans his back against the doorjamb of the small bathroom.

Sucking in a deep breath, his entire body spasms as he falls into another coughing fit. His lungs scream with every jerk and jolt as he drops to his knees spitting up globs of phlegm and blood. Rolling over to his side, his broken ribs shift and dig into his lungs as he cries out. Spittle and blood drool from his mouth as he forces himself back onto his knees.

Gripping the edge of the bed, he pulls himself up as he unzips his jacket and shrugs it off. The hoodie clings to his chest, soaked through with his sweat and… blood.

Staring at his shoulder, Chris sees the massive blood stain spread from his shoulder down to his chest and streaking all the way down his left side. Sitting down on the bed now, he pulls open the nightstand drawer open, his trembling hand reaches in and pulls out a gray t-shirt. Slowly and painstakingly, he peels the blood soaked hoodie off of him.

Letting it drop to the floor, Chris glances at the ruby red drenched bandages. He doesn’t have any dressing to re-bandage the wound. Can’t even think about that right now.

Pressing his fingers against it, he clenches his jaw and groans as he breathes broken through his nose. Pulling his fingers away, he rubs them together, smearing his blood between his fingertips. Squeezing his eyes shut, he tries to push through the dull red hot ache coming from it. He doesn’t need a doctor to tell him the wound is split wide open.

Shivering, he stands on shaky legs as he walks to the kitchenette, opening a drawer, he grabs a rag and presses it against his chest. Leaning against the stove, he toes his boots off and unbuttons his jeans as he slowly pulls down the zipper and lets the denim slide off his thighs.

The gash on his thigh soaked through the measly dressing that’s wrapped around his leg.

Streaks of blood pool all around the top of his white crew sock coloring it crimson. Wiping the best he can, he scoops up most of his blood, tossing the rag in the sink. Grabbing another rag, he walks back towards the bed as he swipes the bottle of Jack on the little table by the window.

Limping to the bed, he slumps down as he stretches his leg and clamps the bottle between his thighs, twisting the cap, he grips it the best he can as he brings it to his dry cracked lips.

Wrapping his mouth around it, he gulps it down, the cool amber liquid scorching his already infection-riddled lungs.

Putting the bottle on the nightstand, he grabs the t-shirt and lets out a cry as he uses his broken wrist to help lift his other arm into the shirt. Pulling it down, his tears finally fall from his red-rimmed eyes, “Jesus… _fuck_ …” he stutters. His body giving way to exhaustion and sleep deprivation.  

The pain exploding in his chest feels like someone opened him up, gutted him out and poured gallons of gasoline in him and set him ablaze. The throbbing in his thigh and shoulder have Chris doubling over and cursing himself for letting his anger get the best of him.

He should’ve fucking known better.  

He should’ve read the signs; they were clear as day. Every kill this, this thing did, it was done with precision and reason. There were no mistakes. None.

Why?

Shaking his head and forcing his thoughts away, Chris trembles as he feels his fever spike. He’s burning up and freezing down to his bones at the same time. Grabbing the bottle, he gulps down some more as it dribbles from his lips, down his chin dripping onto his thighs.

Setting it back down, he rummages through the open drawer until he finds what he was looking for.

Lifting the burner phone in his hand, he takes in several quick tuffs of air as he says a silent prayer.

“Dear God… pl-please… please work…” His voice quivers and cracks with every shed tear. Pressing down on the power button he watches and waits while nothing happens. “C’mon… fuck! C’mon!”

Pressing down harder, his blurred vision makes it almost impossible for him to see as a blue ring brightens the screen with the words _POWERING_ _UP_ underneath it. Seconds later the loud _ding_ has Chris thanking God a million times over.

Punching in four numbers, Chris hits the send button. The sending now line slowly connects as he rubs his eyes watching the word _sending_ scroll on the bottom. Wiping the wetness off his cheeks, Chris feels his entire body gradually shut down.  

His mind wonders towards the pain pills Ilinca gave him, but, he can’t clear his head enough to try and remember where they are. Where he put them.

Another loud ding has him quickly looking down at his hand. His eyes rim-red as a faint smile settles on his lips. Reading the words, he closes his eyes and cries.

**_Message_ _sent_**

Placing the burner on the nightstand, he sniffles and wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. Opening his eyes, his long thick lashes are matted and wet with tears.

Dragging himself up on the bed, Chris groans and grunts as the pain in his thigh spears right through him. “Fuck! Shit…” Huffing out, he takes a deep breath as he pushes himself until his head touches the thin flimsy pillow. Laying completely flat on his back, he looks up at the ceiling. He’s never noticed all the cracks and faded paint before as his fingers idly reach towards the blanket as he struggles to wrap himself in it, cocooning himself.

Tucking the worn out blanket under his chin, his body lets out another ripple from the tips of his toes to the top of his head. Almost instantly he begins to feel beads of sweat raise and slide down his forehead as his eyelids become heavy.

Gripping the blanket as tight as he can, he feels his fingertips go numb. The coldness settles in him like a vice in his bones making his teeth clatter loudly.

Squeezing his eyes shut, his breathing becomes shallow as the heat behind his eyelids force one last tear to slide down his flushed face.

The last thing he remembers before the darkness laid its claim on him, was the feeling of the boy’s soft full pink lips against his…

**_~*~_ **

_Shivering against the cool breeze, Chris tries to pull the blanket over his head curling himself into a ball._

_The soft raspy sounds of scuttling across the hardwood floors has his eyes snapping open._

_The bright light flooding into the room has him instantly bringing his hand to shield his eyes from the onslaught._

_A loud howl from somewhere beyond the room has Chris hairs on end as he sits up and scoots to the edge of the bed quickly._

_Glancing down at the floor, he sees leaves and branches scattered about as if they were pushed in by the wind as another cold rush of air pushes the door wide open._

_Shoving the blanket off of him, Chris stands and slowly walks to the door as he cranes his neck to see the source of the bright light. Bringing his arm up again, he walks through the door._

_Squinting against the glare, he slowly lowers his arm and opens his eyes…_

_Gasping, he stares up at the little house surrounded by woods…_

_“W-what?” he breathes._

_Shifting his eyes to the garage, his jaw drops as he stares at the car sitting pretty tucked inside. His Mach 1._

_He’s rooted to the ground and he can’t move. His heart is hammering in his chest as he finally breaks free and finds the strength to put one leg in front of the other, but stops almost instantly._

_Looking down he whispers “What? What the fuck?” Chris runs his hands down his thighs. Pushing and exuding pressure where he knows he’s wounded but he doesn’t feel any type of pain. Quickly lifting his shirt, he runs his hand over his chest, by his shoulder. Nothing._

_Pulling his hand away, he stares, shell-shocked as he turns his wrist back and forth. Not broken…_

_“What the fuck is going on?”_

_A loud scream pierces through his thoughts as he looks up at the house. The house. It’s coming from the house._

_Breaking into a run, Chris practically breaks through the door as he comes skidding to a halt in the middle of the living room. His eyes grow wide and his breath gets caught in his throat as every drop of blood flowing through his veins turns into ice cold.  
_

_“Oh my… God…”_

_Staring up at him from the floor, her body twisted and contorted in the most inhumanly way, is the woman. The woman from the monastery. The woman he didn’t save._

_The woman he let… die._

_The look on her face is pure dread. Her eyes are blacked out as she glares up at him. Her body jolts several feet off the floor and slams back down._

_She lands with a hard thud as her body stills in the same position. Her neck is craned grotesquely, leaning away from her body as her back is arched almost connected with the balls of her feet._

_“Jesus!” Chris stumbles. His back slamming against the wall._

_Her mouth goes slack and Chris swears he heard her skin split open as she shows a row of yellowed, rotted teeth and hisses at him. The sound isn’t just coming from deep within her but, from all around him._

_Everywhere. The walls, the floorboards, the furniture, the television, the windows, outside, everywhere._

_“Preot!!! Save me Preot!”_

_The scream echoing loudly throughout the house and cementing him to the floorboards. Every single hair on his body stands on end as a coldness settles deep inside his bones._

_Blowing out a breath, he watches the very air he forced out of his lungs fogs right in front of his eyes as the temperature in the room drops suddenly._

_“Preot…” the woman whispers._

_Glancing down at her, Chris gasps out as he watches her flip on her back. Her chest arching completely off the floor as her arms and legs splay out to the sides, pushing her up like a spider. Her head hanging limply upside down as the white of her eyes glare up at him._

_The bones in her neck crack viciously as her head does a complete three sixty. Her eyes never leaving Chris’ face._

_“Preot! Preot! Preot!” the woman backwards crawls towards him, her feet making a sick scratching sound as she shrieks and claws her way closer and closer._

_“Jesus Fuck!” Chris presses himself deeper into the wall, with no means to escape as he quickly scans the room, looking for something, anything he can use to defend himself._

_“Tsk, tsk, tsk…” the soft sound his tongue makes as it connects to the roof of his mouth has Chris spinning, instantaneously looking towards the darkened hallway._

_Chris’ heart plummets to his stomach as he gasps out. His eyes lock onto the figure slowly walking out into the dim lighting of the living room._

_Everything stops…_

_The oxygen he breathes gets caught in his lungs…_

_The tears threatening to flow from his red-rimmed eyes still…_

_The hissing coming from the thing on the floor gets trapped in its throat…_

_The sounds vibrating throughout the house cease…_

_The very air surrounding him turns bitterly cold… biting and numbing him to his core…_

_Black boots, dark blue jeans, black t-shirt under a leather jacket…_

_He… leans against the archway as his eyes shift from the woman to Chris…_

_Chris can’t move even if he wanted too… he’s sprouted roots and anchored himself to the floorboards as he stares at the… boy…_

_His tongue sweeps along his bottom lip, moistening the pink swell as he stares at the older man…_

_Quickly darting his eyes away, the corners of his mouth curl into a look of disgust as his raven eyes land on the thing a couple of feet away from him…_

_Tsking again, he wiggles his finger back and forth as he slowly walks towards it. Leaning down he grabs a handful of hair as he pulls its head up. “Ssshh…” He breathes. Standing up, he lifts his hand in the air as the woman goes flying backwards. Hitting the wall with a hollow thud, the woman bounces off as the boy flings his hand back and she gets slammed against the wall again._

_“Preot!” she screams “Preot! Save me! Please! Y-you can’t let him kill me. I have a husband! He loves me and I love him! Y-you… you must kill him! The boy! Yes! The boy! Kill the boy! I-I can help you! Yes! The boy, let us kill the boy, Preot!” Her screams quickly turn into high pitched cackles as she tries to reach for Chris. Her gnarled hands swiping at nothing but air._

_Chris hears himself screaming in his head, trying to force his vocal chords to kick start. His arms and legs feel weighed down with lead as he tries with all his strength to move. But, the part of his brain that sends messages to his limbs has been completely severed._

_Chris watches in horror as the boy turns on her, his eyes flashing a red hot blaze._

_Cocking his head to the left, her body begins to rattle against the wall as her skin begins to glow a reddish-orange just below the surface. Her eyes grow wide as her skin stretches and cracks, popping along the way._

_She opens her mouth to scream but gets cut off by a choked out sob. She throws her head back as she’s instantly engulfed in flames. The crackling of her skin and the stench of her burning flesh has Chris shutting his eyes and holding in a breath as her screams finally cut through the silence._

_“Preot!” she shrieks. Her head and arms are flailing everywhere and nowhere, trying to find purchase as she trashes about. The wall behind her is being consumed by the raging fire._

_The heat of the flames lash out like a whip, licking at Chris and singeing the hair on his arms. His lungs burn with every breath he struggles to take in; scorching his throat._

_With one last scream, the wall behind her collapses inward, swallowing her whole as she disappears into a haze of smoke._

_Fire and Brimstone…_

_That’s what it reminded Chris of. The stories he read when he was younger. The ones that always sent a chill running through his veins. Fire and Brimstone. That’s what Hell is…_

_Grimacing, Chris chokes back the rising bile as he stares at the wall where seconds earlier the woman was pinned and burned alive. The outline of her body is charred into the wall leaving remnants of her cremation behind._

_“Noooo…” he whispers. His shoulders slump forward as he stares at the boy. His eyes slowly slide down his body and back up again. Committing every detail of the boy to memory._

_The way his boots have the worn look to the leather. His jeans, the way they cling to him, shaping his lean muscular thighs when he shifts his weight from one leg to another._

_Chris’ eyes catch the band of his underwear as he lifts his arm and traces a fingertip through the ash. But, it’s the tease of skin that has Chris swallowing hard._

_The hem of his shirt lifts a bit, showing just enough skin for Chris to notice his jeans are extremely low on his hips. The smooth outline of his hip bone juts out making the little freckle catch his attention._

_His eyes continue to wander up as he stares at the boy’s throat, he traces his jawline with his mind’s eye, he can practically feel the smoothness of his skin._

_His eyes quickly shift to his mouth._

_Fuck…_

_He watches, almost, mesmerized as the boy parts his lips slightly. The skin sticking together before the pink of his tongue slips through, moistening them as his eyes gleam raven, staring back at the older man._

_Slowly walking up to Chris, the boy leans in on him. He’s several inches shorter than him._

_Much shorter…_

_His eyelids slowly close to barely a slit as he lets them linger down the older man’s body a bit longer. He watches as the man opens his palms to flatten them against the wall behind him._

_The coldness seeping through the cracks has Chris’ fingers growing steadily numb._

_Clenching his jaw, he glares back at the boy._

_No… Not a boy…_

_He’s a… thing…_

_A cold blooded merciless thing…_

_He’s a fuckin monster…_

_A sharp jolt of electricity shoots through Chris’ body as he clenches his jaw harder, grinding down on his teeth as another bolt fires through his nerve endings._

_“Fuck!” Chris grits out as he bangs his head back against the wall. The veins in his neck bulge out as they pulsate under a thin layer of sweat, surfacing and glistening his skin._

_“Mm… such language… Preot…”_

_Chris eyes snap open as he stares at the boy. His blood rushng red hot in his veins as the taste of blood floods his senses._

_Every nerve in his body is alive, crackling and firing as if he’s been set to burn. His skin is tingling as the tiny hairs on his arm stand the closer the boy gets to him._

_Gazing at him, Chris can… smell him…_

_He smells clean and fresh, a mixture of hair and body wash with a faint scent of vanilla. Its embedded in his soft, supple skin and Chris can feel it as the boy stands on his tip toes and leans in on him, chest to chest._

_Fuck…_

_Closing his eyes, Chris can’t swallow the lump that’s formed in his throat as the boy’s intoxicating scent invades him._

_But not just his senses, it’s as if he’s crawled underneath Chris’ skin. Molding to him, infusing with him. Slowly pulling Chris apart, clawing at him and exposing every last raw nerve and dirty secret he’s tried to keep buried._

_Placing his arms around Chris’, his palms flat against the wall, he boxes the older man in._

_“And here I thought, you were… dead.” His warm breath settles against Chris’ stubble sending shivers up and down his back as he presses himself deeper against the wall, trying to get some distance from the boy._

_Real… he’s… real…_

_Clenching his jaw, Chris huffs out a breath he didn’t even realize he was holding in. His fingernails dig into his palms, slicing the skin open making his blood pool into his nail-beds as he glares at the boy._

_“Sorry to disappoint you…” Chris spits out._

_Pulling away from him slowly, but still keeping the older man boxed in, the boy cast a side glance to the wall behind him. Looking back at the older man, he arches his eyebrow and smirks at him._

_Inhaling deeply, he exhales slowly as his chest settles into a soft lull. Slow and steady he breathes as he turns his back on Chris and walks towards the scorched wall. The outline of the woman’s remains are seared into a morbid sketch against the pale blue paint._

_Lifting his hand, he ghosts his fingers along the wall, he sighs “Did you really think you could’ve saved her? Hm? I killed her. And yet, you still tried. Even ‘til the end, you’re still, their… Martyr.”_

_His voice hums like soft musical chords in Chris ears. The vibrations send tingle like sensations screaming throughout his body._

_Did he think he could’ve saved her? Yes. Yes, he would’ve saved her had he been able to finish the exorcism. But he didn’t finish it and he didn’t save her._

_The boy made sure of it._

_“I could’ve saved her. I could’ve saved her and sent that thing inside of her back to hell. But you stopped me.” Pushing himself off the wall, Chris clenches his fists to his sides as he stands several feet away from the boy, burrowing holes in the back of his skull._

_He wills himself with everything he has not to lunge at the thing standing in front of him and rip him to shreds when that’s the only thing he can think about. So he doesn’t. He stays rooted where he is and watches him._

_Chris needs this… this… thing to keep talking._

_No. Not a thing…_

_He told him what he was…_

_Demon…_

_Chuckling, the Demon glances at several photos sitting on the mantle place. Picking one up, he brushes the thin layer of dust off of it as he stares at the image._

_“You can’t save someone that’s already… dead, Priest.” Flipping the photo around, he shows it to Chris and smiles._

_Chris’ eyes drop to the photo held in the boy’s hand, his body grows rigid as his shoulders tense and the flash of heat is instant as Chris lunges for the boy, knocking the picture of his grandfather to the floor, shattering the glass._

_Gripping him by his jacket, Chris slams the boy against the mantle with such force, it sends the rest of the pictures flying to the floor. The sound of the glass breaking in succession has glass shards scattering everywhere._

_The Demon cries out as Chris pulls back and slams him a second time making his head snap back and connect with the brick wall. The cracking sound his skull makes as his body bounces back has the boy gasping out in pain as his arms go limp trying to push off the older man._

_The first sharp jolt of pain that shoots up his arm as his knuckles slam repeatedly into the Demon’s face explodes in him, sending waves of rage and sick pleasure throughout his body._

_Snatching the boy by the back of his neck, Chris throws him on the floor as his body rolls and comes to a hard stop against the wall into a heaping pile of tangled legs and limbs._

_Groaning out in pain, the Demon tries to pull himself up as his chin snaps back and he collapses flat on his back from the older man’s boot._

_Straddling the boy, Chris grabs a fistful of hair as he pulls his fist back and pummels his face over and over again. Each new punch hitting him with more force then the last. The blood spurting from the boy’s mouth as Chris splits his lip open paints a clowns twisted smile sliding up his cheeks, dripping from his earlobes and pooling behind his head, matting his hair as droplets splatter on the hardwood floor._

_The Demon’s vision blurs as he starts to choke on his own blood rising in the back of his throat._

_The feel of hands wrapping around his neck and fingers digging into his flesh as the older man squeezes his windpipe, choking him has him trashing his legs and trying desperately to break from his hold._

_Pulling on his shirt, gripping and helplessly pushing at the solid body on top of him, he spits up blood as his temples throb and pulsate under the pressure. He’s struggling to breathe as he faintly hears the most inhuman sounds coming from the man above him._

_“Where the fuck is your smoke and shit now, huh?! You motherfucker! You fucking piece of shit!” Chris screams out._

_His entire body is quaking with so much hate for this fucking thing lying underneath him he doesn’t even recognize himself as he continues to bear down his weight on the vile disgusting thing squirming under him._

_He’s shaking horrible as he white knuckles the Demon’s throat. His vision clouds as he feels his lashes wet with tears of anger and hate spring from the corners of his eyes._

_All he sees is blood…_

_All he sees is death…_

_All he sees is the Demon in his hands as he bites through his bottom lip, his own blood gushing hot and metallic in his mouth, sending him over the edge as a flash catches his eye off to the right._

_Still strangling him with one hand, Chris pulls his fist back and slams his knuckles into the Demon’s cheek. Splitting his skin wide open just underneath his eye._

_Snatching the pointed piece of glass up, Chris pulls his arm back and goes to plunge it in the Demon’s chest when he lets out a blood curdling scream._

_“NOOOOOOO!”_

_Staring at the Demon, Chris’ hand stops in mid-air. His chest heaving as his lungs gulp down breaths of air._

_The boy has his hands up. Guarding his face as blood continues to seep from his mouth and open cuts along his cheeks and eyes._

_“Noooooo…” the boy shakily whispers as he stares up at the older man on top of him._

_Chris breath hitches and gets trapped in his throat as his eyes grow wide..._

_He can’t tear his eyes away from the boy…_

_Because looking up at him, are the most hauntingly beautiful gray tear streaked eyes he’s ever seen in his life…_

_The grip he has on the glass loosens immediately as it clatters to the floor and he scrambles off the boy, pressing his back against the fireplace._

_Struggling to breathe, Chris sucks in small spurts of air into his painfully constricted lungs._

_The boy rolls over on his side, groaning, as he coughs up blood. Spittle dribbling from his split lip as he tries to push himself up on his hands and knees._

_Groaning in pain, he reaches behind his head as he feels the slow trickle of blood matting his hair. Pulling his trembling hand away, he stares at it as he crawls away from the older man._

_Giggling, he shakes his head as he spits out blood. “Is that all you got, Priest? Hm?” Turning to face Chris, he smiles wide, showing a row of blood stained teeth. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he spits out some more blood as it lands with a soft splat on the hardwood floor._

_“You couldn’t do it could you? You were ready to kill me,” the Demon stands up, gripping the armrest to help keep him steady as the back of his knees bump into the couch, breathing in deeply, he licks his bloodied lips “but you couldn’t do it.” His laugh further taunting the older man. “What’s a matter? Huh, Priest? Fuckin weak!”_

_Before he can move out the way, Chris lunges at him again, wrapping his arms around his waist as they both go toppling over the back of the couch. Landing in a tangle of limbs and legs, Chris grapples with the boy, pinning him face down on the floor. Wrapping his thick muscular thighs around the brunette’s waist, he kicks and trashes, struggling to break free from his hold._

_A sharp stabbing pain blinds Chris momentarily as the Demon elbows him in the temple repeatedly. Struggling to hold onto him, his hold weakens as the boy continues to pound against the side of his head._

_Wiggling free, the boy scrambles to his feet as he’s shoved into the wall from behind._

_Crying out, his knees give out from under him as he’s hauled up by his hair._

_“Gaaah! Fuck!” Lifting his hand, he sends Chris flying across the room, slamming him into a bookshelf as he crumbles to the floor. The bookshelf teeters and topples over him, sending books crashing on top of him._

_The force of the shelf landing on him sends a stabbing pain up the middle of his back, as he swallows back a groan, ignoring it, he pushes himself back up._

_“There he is…” Chris smirks at the boy. “I was wondering when your little parlor tricks were gonna show up again.” Walking towards the boy, Chris eyes him slowly._

_But the little bastard’s got abilities. He’s lethal and dangerous. And he’s not about to turn his back on him. Chris has to get him talking, he needs to know._

_Why? Why those people…_

_What is he after…_

_“So, that’s it… isn’t it? Your smoke screen trick. You can’t do it when you’re restrained, huh? When you’re fuckin choked up. You can’t can you?” Chris chides him as he circles him slowly like a hunter stalking his prey._

_“You don’t know shit, old man.” Glaring at him, the Demon wipes his mouth again as he smears blood across his chin._

_“Now, that’s where you’re wrong, little boy. You thought you killed me, but… here I am.” Chris opens his arms as he brushes his fingertips down his chest, looking up at him through his thick lashes. The corners of his mouth curling into a wicked smile._

_“For now. Enjoy it Priest. You won’t be much longer.”_

_Wiggling his finger at the brunette, Chris leans against the couch as he looks towards the open window. “What are you after? Hm? Those people you killed. Why them? Why like that?”_

__Softly sighing, the boy shakes his head and bends down, picking up a photograph. Brushing the broken glass off the picture, he pulls it from the bent frame. Staring at it, he flips it around and shows it to Chris “This is you? You were really blonde here old man. How old were you?” His voice is barely above a whisper as he stares at him, the wind slowly picks up as the calming chiming of the wind chimes just outside the window begin to sway in the breeze. Chris is instantly hit with a wave of De Ja Vue.  
_ _

_Darting his eyes to the picture, Chris feels his stomach tighten._

_Staring at it he remembers that day. He was down by the river fishing. The heat was unbearable that entire summer, so every day after his chores, he made a straight beeline down to the river. He’d spent hours there, swimming, fishing and getting sun kissed until his grandfather would come down hollering at him that it was getting late. Plenty of times Chris ended up falling asleep on the cool grass only to be awakened by the soft lull of the rushing water._

_That picture… was his grandfather’s favorite._

_Cutoff jeans and no shirt. He’s lying on the grass, no towel underneath him. He never liked that feel. He had always relished the cool moisture from the grass blades cooling down his heated skin._

_He was listening to his Walkman. Even remembers the mixed tape he had on that day. It was the only one he brought with him so he listened to it over and over again. It was a compilation of his favorite rap songs. From B.I.G to Busta Rhymes to Bone Thugs-N-Harmony, Common and Wu-Tang Clan. God, he loved that tape._

_His grandfather snapped that picture right before he brought him his lunch…_

_Chris doesn’t know why he said it, but it slipped from his lips before he could stop himself._

_“Fourteen…”_

_Glancing back down at the picture, the boy stares at it. Walking up to the mantle, he gently places it back up. Not looking away from the photograph, he asks “That day, did you think you would grow up to be what you are now?”_

_“Yes.”_

_Chris coldness in his response doesn’t go unnoticed by him as he watched the boy’s eyes flicker momentarily._

_Shifting his eyes away from the photograph, but not looking towards Chris, the boy furrows his brow in thought. Sighing, his shoulders visibly slink down a bit and in a barely there whisper he says "No options to speak of?  No wants or desires of your own? To take control of your... life... and live it... as you please?"_

_Staring at the boy, Chris shakes his head from all the memories of his grandfather coming home in the middle of the night. Long, hushed conversations with Father Bryan regarding his latest hunt, his latest kill. His grandfather never knew that he would stay awake many nights waiting to hear the crunch of gravel under the tires of his Ford pick-up, signaling that he was home and safe. For the moment. Until he was called out again._

_Father Bryan would come and take care of him with the excuse of 'You know your grandfather Christopher. He's doing the Lord's work in helping out in those missions. Rebuilding towns isn't easy, but, Robert... he's a good man. He'll be back soon, son. Now go on. Go outside and play. I'll get your supper ready.'_

_That was a mantra that Father Bryan fed him over and over. Each time he was rebuilding a new town somewhere else. A little village in Costa Rica, El Salvador or Peru. A town ravaged by an E5 Tornado in Oklahoma, or a hurricane ripping through several Parrish's in Louisiana._

_But Chris, he knew better. He knew the truth. He knew what his grandfather did.  Even as young as he was, he knew that monsters were real. And they didn't come in the form of a vampire or werewolf or even a ghost. Those were things scary stories were made up of to frighten children. The things that go bump in the night._

_No... these things...  they came in the form of pure evil. They crept into your very soul and devoured you whole. Leaving nothing but a shell of what you once were and if you were lucky... if... you were lucky, you were marked by them. To wait. Wait for them to come back and claim you once more._

_And when that day finally arrived, Chris would be there waiting with one objective and one objective only._

_Kill it..._

_Kill the host... and kill the Demon within._

_So... there was never a choice for him._

_"No..." Chris finds his voice to speak "there was never a choice for me..."_

_Nodding his head, the Demon closes his eyes and breathes "That's a shame... because, there was never a choice for me either..."_

_Chris heart plummets to the floor, hearing the finality of the boy's words echo in his ear. He can't shake the wave of sadness that's crept all over him suddenly. He can't remember the last time he felt like this. There's something there... in the boy's choice of words. What the fuck did he mean by that?_

_Turning to face him now, the brunette looks so much younger standing in his living room as Chris takes him in._

_Jesus, he’s just a fucking kid._

_His disheveled hair, his young vibrant skin. His full pouty pink lips._

_He’s a goddamn kid…_

_“A Warrior Priest. At the age of fourteen, you already knew that’s what you wanted to be. Wanted to do for the rest of your life?”_

_“Yes.”_

_Giggling, the boy looks over to him and licks his lips. The taste of blood still seeping onto his tongue “Well, that’s a sure way to end your life early isn’t it?”_

_“Depends on who you ask. Being that I don’t plan to die today or anytime soon. Then, the answer is no.”_

_“So… sure of yourself, old man.” The Demon walks slowly around him. His clouded gray eyes looking up and locking onto Chris’ deep baby blues._

_“I am. One fuck up and you get pretty banged up by a kid in a monastery in Romania though. So… I gotta keep my guard up.”_

_Laughing again, the Demon’s face lights up as he shakes his head and shrugs his shoulders._

_Bridging the gap, Chris stares at him as he drags his eyes down the boy’s lean frame._

_Chris outweighs him easily by almost a hundred pounds, his sheer bulk and height alone can take any man down. Demon or not._

_That doesn’t matter though, because he can feel it like the blood rushing in his veins, or the air in his lungs. This boy, this… Demon… whatever he is. There’s something more to him._

_And the reality of their close proximity to each other hits Chris full on with the realization that if he wanted to kill him, he could’ve damn well tried already._

_Tried…_

_But no..._

_He’s not looking to kill him. He wants to talk._

_“In my defense… you did try to stop me from doing something I had to do.”_

_Chris stands now and is face to face with the boy, his eyes take in his features, committing them to memory._

_His strong jaw. The lines are both sharp and soft at the same time. His plump lips. Especially that bottom one. Chris’ eyes stay glued to his mouth as he watches the boy rake his teeth over it making it swell even more than what it already is. The smooth silky feel of his flushed skin, Chris can practically see the rush of blood surfacing, making him blush red._

_Wonder if he blushes red all over his body..._

_Fuck…_

_Fuck…_

_But his eyes…_

_Every time he glances or looks at Chris, he feels as if the boy is reaching into his soul. Every deep dark secret he’s kept hidden from prying eyes, it’s as if he knows every last sick, sadistic depraved thought in his head._

_Innocence… his eyes make him look so innocent when he’s nothing but the exact opposite._

_Swallowing hard, Chris shakes his head once. Pushing those thoughts out of his mind. “You killed her. Like you killed those other people. Why!?”_

_Looking up at Chris, he sucks in a breath of air as he looks down at his arm. The older man has his hand wrapped around his forearm, clutching him hard._

_Clenching his jaw, Chris squeezes harder as his fingers dig into the boy’s flesh through his jacket. The look of hate in his eyes speaks volumes as the boy smirks back at him. And that smirk, that blatant disregard for humanity sets Chris off again._

_Letting go of his arm, he grips him by his shoulders, shoving him backwards he slams the boy against the wall._

_Crying out in pain, the boy is lifting off the floor as Chris pulls him back and shoves him again. His head connects with the wall as a hollow thud resonates loud in his ears._

_The boy doesn’t know what’s worse. The stabbing pain erupting in his head or the ringing in his ears._

_“Answer me goddammit! Why?! Those people were innocent and you fuckin slaughtered them like pigs!” Chris spits out as his body trembles with all the hate he felt for the boy the moment he laid eyes on him in Jiet._

_“Get off me!” The Demon screams as Chris yanks him back and slams him again. The flash of pain exploding in his head has his him slumping forward as he tries to shove the older man off of him._

_His blood feels warm against his skin as it dribbles out like a broken sieve. The thickness of it makes him feel like someone drizzled a bottle of hot molasses on his head._

_The loss of blood seeping from the open wound down the back of his neck has a wave of dizziness and nausea hitting him. Washing over him, gasping for air as the room begins to spin faster and faster, his fingers grip and dig at Chris’ shirt._

_His eyes flutter shut as he tries to fight another bout of nausea, his fingers lose their hold as the arms clutching him, let him go._

_Dropping to the floor with a hard thump, his knees give out as his blood coats the back of his neck and slides down his jaw. Lifting up on his hands and knees, the boy begins to slowly crawl away from the older man._

_A soft giggle slips from his bloodied lips as he shakes his head._

_That giggle… soft and sinister engulfs the room and surrounds Chris as his hackles stand on edge, he goes to take a step closer to the boy but instantly freezes as he watches him slowly stand and glare back at him._

_The gray of his eyes are obliterated by a tidal wave of nothing but a black abyss…_

_“You… Priest… are so goddamn… gullible.” Throwing up his hand, he lifts Chris off the floor and throws him across the room. Landing on a small side table, it shatters and splinters all around him as Chris huffs out a low whimper._

_“Do you really think you could’ve saved that woman? Or the others too come?” Walking slowly, he glances down as the older man crawls and pushes his way out of the pile of splintered wood, making his way around the couch._

__Shoving his boot against h_ is shoulder, he pushes him down flat on his back, pinning him to the floor underneath. Clicking his tongue on the roof of his mouth, he licks his top lip and glances up at the ceiling. Putting a finger to his lips he taps them repeatedly, “Hm… now… why does this position look familiar? Ah, yes… I know… it’s just like when I fucked you up in Romania…” _

_“Fuck you…” Chris spits out at him as he glowers at the boy. “You and your magic tricks don’t mean shit to me.”_

_“Says the old man flat on his back with a boot to his face.” With that, the Demon kicks Chris in his face, making his head snap back and hit the floor with a loud crack as he turns around and laughs loudly “Ooooooh oh! That had to hurt!”_

_The force of the kick sent Chris’ eyes snapping into the back of his head as a gush of blood explodes from his nose. The white-hot flash of pain feels as if his skull is being sawed in half._

_Clenching his jaw, he rolls to his side and wipes the blood from his nose as he snorts._

_Pushing himself up, he cracks his neck and rolls his shoulders as he stares down the Demon standing in the middle of the room._

_“It’s a shame you know…” he hears him say as he paces himself to stand only feet away from the boy._

_“You still think that woman could’ve been saved. But, the truth is…” he shrugs his shoulders, “she was already… dead.” He whispers as he looks back at Chris._

_A twisted knot forms in Chris’ stomach as he watches entranced, by the look on the Demon’s face. His eyebrows are stitched together as if his thoughts have taken him to some faraway place._

_“You don’t know that. If I had more time, I would’ve—“_

_“You would’ve what?! Exorcised the thing that squatted inside of her?! Huh?” the boy glares at Chris with daggers in those black eyes. “Tell me, Priest…” he begins circling the older man, their height difference is clearly evident as the Demon tilts his chin up. “how many souls have you saved? How many Demons have you sent back to hell?”_

_“Enough.” Chris clips. His teeth grinding and his jaw clenching as he keeps his eyes on the boy._

_Rolling his lips, he nods in response. “Your numbers are high I’m guessing. They’d have to be right? I mean—“ he flicks his wrist up and down towards him as his eyes slide down his body and back again. “you’re a Warrior Priest. Born and raised… trained, under the watchful eye of the Catholic Church. Kinda like… a pet. A dog. I bet they keep that leash around your neck nice and tight. Don’t they?”_

_Chuckling, Chris shakes his head “Nope.”_

_Leaning against the couch, he smirks and crosses his arms on his chest. The sleeves of his shirt strain and pull against his biceps as the veins throb and pulsate underneath. “I do what I want. Take the cases I choose too. People die along the way. Casualties of war. But, what I wanna know is… who’s pulling your strings, little… boy?” the way his tongue hits the back of his teeth and the emphasis on the word ‘little’ has the Demon pressing his lips into a hard line._

_“Fuck you…” he breathes._

_The way those raven eyes stare at Chris and the tension rolls off of him in ripples, he knows he hit a chord with him._

_“Hm? Daddy issues?”_

_“Fuck you Priest!”_

_“Aaah…” rolling his eyes, he grins “you see the way I see it, these people you’re killing, the elaborate set up you got going on. You’re killing the Demons inside of them. But what I can’t fathom… is why? You’re just like them.”_

_“I’m nothing like them!” the boy screams at Chris, the veins in his neck bulging from the strain of his shout. His blood runs scorching hot as his skin flushes red from the tips of his ears down to his chest and below._

_Instantly pushing off the couch, Chris stands and takes several steps closer to the boy, crowding into his space._

_Black eyes locked onto deep baby blues…_

_Staring at each other neither of them budge to move the other away. But the silence is deafening as the tension and anger radiating off of both of them fills the tight space between them in heat._

_Lowering his eyes, his thick lashes cast long shadows fanning across his cheeks against the pale moon light filtering through the window. “I’m… nothing like… them.” the boy whispers as he slowly looks back up at the older man._

_No longer black as sin, but clouded and gray like the thunderstorm brewing beyond the trees…_

_The slight hitch in Chris breath has him taking one step closer to the boy. The static in the air is as electric as the friction between them._

_Fisting his hands to his side, Chris takes another step closer. The tip of his boot touching the tip of the boy’s boot. It didn’t surprise him that the boy didn’t step back. He knew he wouldn’t._

_“You can change your eye color all you want, but, you’ll never change what you are.”_

_“And what am I, Priest?” the brunette glances up and murmurs so close to the older man’s lips, the heat of his breath glazes down his stubble._

_Fighting back a shudder, Chris slides the tip of his tongue across his bottom lip. “You’re a murderer. A monster. You’re the thing I hunt down and kill and believe you me, m’gonna send your ass back too fuckin hell in pieces.” The venom spewing from his words is making him unrecognizable even to himself._

_Rolling his lips, the boy cocks his head to the left and takes a step back from the older man. “Hmm…” he scrunches his nose and arches an eyebrow “thank you, but no. I’ve been there. Not a fan.”_

_Chris is taken back the boy’s words. He’s… been there? Chris pushes the thought away… for now._

_“Enough about me, Priest. Let’s talk about you.” Sliding up to Chris side, the Demon side glances at him. “If I’m a murderer than what does that make you? You and I… we aren’t that much different.”_

_“Like hell we are.”_

_“Says the man who kills in the name of God.” Flicking his wrist up and down Chris body, he narrows his eyes at him “So, you wear a collar around your neck and a rosary across your chest, recite ten Hail Mary’s and ten Our Father’s and your murderous ways are all but forgiven. Wiping the slate clean so you can live and breathe and kill another day. Did they teach you that in seminary school?”_

_“I don’t kill people for sport, or fun. I kill what’s inside of them. The demons that possess them. That’s what I kill.” Chris turns and faces the brunette, his eyes blazing with anger as he fights the urge to wrap his hands around his throat and choke the fucking life out of him._

_The laughter bubbling up from deep inside the boy makes him look crazed and hysterical as he shakes his head at the older man “You’re such a goddamn hypocrite!” He whirls around on him, running his fingers through his tousled brunette waves. A stare colder than a glacier settling in the gray of his eyes. “You stand there in all your fuckin righteousness. You reek of it and you wear it like a second skin. But I know you Priest, and maybe one time, you cared about what you did, the lives you saved. That was a long time ago though. Cause now… it’s all about the hunt for you isn’t it.”_

_Chris knows the boy isn’t asking him a question. His answers wouldn’t make a difference to him anyway._

_But what he does notice, is the subtle way his jaw is clenching and his skin is flushing down his neck and under his shirt. Every step he takes back and away from Chris, Chris is countering it with a step closer towards the boy._

_“Did you know that they can’t possess a soul that isn’t wicked?” The boy’s words linger like a carrot on a stick in front of Chris._

_“I bet you didn’t know that did you, Priest? So you see, all those souls you saved, it was just a matter of time before they became another Demon’s meat jacket. Show me your meek, your wicked, your sinners and I’ll show you man.”_

_“I don’t believe you.” Chris murmurs under his breath._

_“Yes… you do.” The brunette whispers as he slowly strides up to the older man. “You’re a killer, Priest. You like it. It feeds you and you gladly devour it. Do you say your prayers at night? Ask him for forgiveness? Hm?” The boy keeps his eyes locked on the older man’s face._

_“Every night.” Chris responds flatly._

_“Don’t you ever get tired of it? Following their orders.”_

_“I don’t follow anyone’s orders.”_

_“Bullshit! You're a fuckin liar!” the Demon strings a litany of curses together as he rolls his eyes at the older man._

_“Why are you so bothered about it, little boy. You’re the one who went out there on a killing spree. If you hadn’t done that, you would’ve slipped right under my radar. You didn’t, so, here we are.” Chris teases and waves around the room. “You never answered my question. Who’s pulling your strings, puppet. What are you really after?” Chris lips turn up into a sneer as he lowers his head a bit, eyes gleaming._

__“Puppet?” the Demon’s whimsical laughter flows through_ the room, surrounding Chris from all sides. Lifting his hands above his head, he brushes them down his chest, twisting and turning his wrists. “I have no strings on me, old man. Unlike… you.”_

_Chris huffs out and slowly shakes his head once._

_“Your life doesn’t belong to you. It belongs… to them.” The Demon rolls his lips as he paces lazily around Chris, his eyes never leaving the older man’s frame as he sizes him up. “It’s true. Those miserable old men, they demand so much from you. You’re… tired…” the boy’s voice drops a dip as he slowly closes his eyes and leans in against Chris’ back. His chest barely a hairline from touching the older man’s muscular back. “I… know…” he purrs against the soft fabric of Chris’ t-shirt. The warmth of his breath instantly pebbles goosebumps all over his skin, sending a shudder exploding through Chris body. His nails cut into his palms as he bites the inside of his cheek, swallowing the gasp threatening to slip from his lips._

_“Who do you confess to, Priest? Hmm?” the Demon hums as his words lace around the older man. “Who gets the privilege to listen to your sins? Friends? Family? Huh?” Moving away from his back, the Demon is now face to face with him. Gray eyes penetrating into Chris’ very soul. Leaning in, the brunette drags his eyes down Chris body, lingering on his red belt. Shaking his head, he glances back up at him._

_Chris hasn’t budged an inch. He hasn’t taken his eyes off of the boy the entire time. They’re playing some sort of cat and mouse game. Unfortunately, Chris doesn’t know who’s the cat and who’s the mouse._

_“No—“ he sighs, “you have no one. So… sad, old man.”_

_A small huff escapes Chris as he licks his lips and cocks his head to face the boy “You’re reaching kid…”_

_“Am I know?” he smirks. The gleam in his eyes shine bright, his blown pupils all but obliterating the thin ring of gray as he sighs deeply. His chest rising slowly, pressing himself into the older man. “C’mon,—“ he murmurs “tell me. I’m right here. I’ll listen. I’ll always… listen. No one will ever… know. Just you, and… little o’me. Wouldn’t you like that? Hm?”_

_Chris presses his lips together, the boy’s too close to him making the hackles in the back of his neck rise. His heartbeat’s spiking up, he can feel it thrumming in his chest. Fisting his pants, Chris keeps his eyes on the boy in front of him._

_That grin, the fuckin smirk…_

_That moist tongue peeking between those pouty pink lips…_

_Those thick lashes cascading across his flushed face…_

_Goddamn sinful is what this boy is…_

_Fuck…_

_Almost as if the Demon read his mind, he inhales Chris scent, pulling him, getting closer still. “Your… very own confessional? I can give you that… you know. No judgements. No opinions. No more moral righteousness… free of guilt, free of shame. Confession is good for the soul. Even a soul, as dark… as yours. I know your sins…”_

_Leaning in, the brunette raises up on his tip toes, his soft pink lips graze the older man’s stubble._

_The warmth of the boy’s breath makes Chris quiver under his intense gaze. He’s caught in a spider’s web as the boy flicks his tongue out, moistening his lips, smiling up at him._

_A sick and twisted chill runs down Chris spine, like frost across a glass slowly spidering out._

_Lightly tracing the veins in the older man’s arms, his lean fingers ghost the softest of touches as his gray eyes slowly map out his biceps. Pressing his chest flushed to his, the boy breathes in the older man._

_The underlying scent of musk and a sheen of sweat make a heady combination as the boy rakes his teeth over his bottom lip._

_“I-I can smell it… on you.”_

_“What?” Chris all but growls out. His eyes sweeping the Demon’s smaller frame up and down. “Hm? You know my fuckin sins? Why don’t you tell me than?”_

_“Your transgressions Priest. The pressure. It’s unbearable sometimes isn’t it? So much weight on your shoulders. It’s not fair. You live by their rules, under their tyranny. Their… laws. But, what do you get in return? Huh? Nothing. I can give you what you need. What you—“ turning his face, his lips graze the corner of Chris’s mouth, his breath invading his lungs, setting him on fire from the inside out “want…”_

_Turning away from the boy, Chris feels his fingertips drag down his arm, leaving a tingling feeling spiking deep in his stomach. Running his fingers through his hair, he inhales slowly as he checks himself, trying to extinguish the burn in his belly._

_“Better to reign in Hell as King, then to be a servant of God. Is that it?” Chris glares. His temper flaring as he desperately tries to keep himself calm. He knows what the boy is doing. He’s baiting him, taunting him, pushing him to see how far he can go before he snaps._

_Kid must have a fucking death wish…_

_Laughing, the Demon shrugs his shoulders as he sways right up to Chris._

_“Please… your God is the one who’s laughing. All those—“ he waves his hands around, flicking his wrists “fucked up rules. Each one set up so man can fail. You don’t see that though.” The brunette looks up at Chris, his brow furrowed as if he’s trying to make the older man see through his eyes._

_Pressing himself into Chris chest purposely, his lips are so damn close to his, Chris can see every dip and crease in those plump lips…_

_His eyes gloss over as he grazes the tip of his nose in Chris stubble and down his jawline as his fingers trace the buckle of his red belt._

_Every fucking touch makes Chris feel like he’s losing himself more and more. The boy’s feather like touches leave raised pin pricks all over his body, coiling and pulling at him in the most primal of ways._

_“You’re such a masochist, Priest. What do you allow yourself? What… pleasures are hidden in that deep… dark place you have tucked away from roaming eyes?”_

_Chris heart pounds louder, slamming repeatedly against his chest. He’s fucking surprised it hasn’t busted through._

_The boy’s voice is searing into his skull, pushing him to the brink as he teeters on the edge of insanity._

_The pounding headache that’s slowly crawled up from the back of his head throbs and pulsates underneath his eyelids. The brute force of the pain beats against his skull like two freight trains colliding, metal twisting and screeching as explosions break and rattle in his brain._

_Crying out, Chris grabs the Demon by the arms, effortlessly, lifting him in the air as he slams him down on the table, pinning him between the table and himself._

_The hollow thud of the boy’s body hitting the solid wood resonates off the walls, as the brunette squeezes his eyes shut. The moan escaping his lips sounds so goddamn needy that Chris yanks him up again and slams him down even harder just to hear it again._

_“Aaahhh… P-priest…”_

_“You got one thing right, boy. I am a fuckin masochist…” Chris growls out, seething with anger._

_“P-priest!”_

_“F-fuck!” Chris breathes hard through his nose as he clamps down on his jaw, staring at the boy as he gasps over and over, squirming underneath him, watching his pink lips swell and redden as he bites down a wave of pain._

_The Demon’s hands immediately reach out and clutch at Chris’ arms. Trying to shove him away. His fingers push and pull, shove and yank at him as they slide and lose their grip._

_Sweat clings to his hair, matting it to his face as he tries desperately to get away from the older man._

_Chris grabs at the brunette’s wrists with one hand, yanking them above the boy’s head, pinning him down as he looms over his smaller body._

_“Get off of me!” the boy cries out as the hold the older man has on his wrists tightens and digs deeper biting into his flesh. His breathing is rushed and ragged as he continues to squirm underneath the Priest._

_Chris presses his full weight, trapping him in as the boy lifts his knees and spreads his legs writhing and bucking under the older man’s bulk. Sliding in-between the boy’s thighs, Chris yanks on the boy’s wrists harder, his thick fingers wrapping around the softness of his skin with an unbreakable vice-grip._

_The boy’s hips roll and swell up against Chris’ crotch as their friction has the boy gasping sharply. Chris pulls on his wrists again making the boy wince in pain. He’s not afraid to admit it to himself, but, every time he makes the boy cry out in pain, his stomach clenches, furling and sending a delicious heat coiling and tightening his balls._

_“Aaahhh...” the Demon whimpers, soft and breathy against Chris lips. He’s struggling to break loose, but the older man is bigger as he uses his weight and mass as leverage. He can’t push him off. Every wriggle, every jolt upwards of his hips has the older man pushing down with his hips, controlling the boy’s movements. The strain in his jeans has his dick painfully hard and begging for some contact. The electric shocks punching his gut make him moan with every thrust as the older man shoves him back down, rocking into him as the table rattles and shakes against the wall._

_Chris rough callused hand digs into the boy’s hip. The feel of his hip bone jutting out as he pulls him back down, lifting him again and slams him back as he smiles cruelly at him._

_That fucking whine, whimper and moan he pulls from the Demon’s swollen red lips, has Chris seeing fucking red. So help him God, he wants to get the brunette screaming._

_Staring down at the boy, Chris watches, enthralled, every facial expression and pained reaction to what he’s doing to him. Letting go of his wrists, he watches as the boy grasps at Chris’ biceps, pushing and shoving as his strength whines down. What the boy does next makes Chris hiss as a deep groan rips from his throat._

_His cock’s rock fucking hard as it strains and pushes against the zipper, the boy wraps his thighs around Chris waist and pulls him into him. Harder._

_Digging his fingers into the boy’s hip, Chris can feel the bone cracking under his grip._

_“Aaahh! GOD!” the Demon screams. “P-priest! S-stop! I-I know your s-secrets!” the boy’s tears are streaking down his flushed face. “L-look at me…” he cries staring into the older man’s eyes._

_A crazed look slides across Chris’ face as the grip he has on the boy doesn’t lessen._

_Breathing hard, the boy feels the pain searing into his hip from the older man’s grasp._

_Leaning in, their faces barely an inch apart. The heat of their breaths into one another has them both gasping and panting._

_“L-look… but don’t touch… touch… but don’t taste. Taste—“ the Demon leans in closer to Chris’ lips as he licks his own, the barely there flick of his tongue makes Chris roll his hips into the boy as the boy moans out, clutching Chris tighter to him._

_Their eyes lock unto each other as Chris bites down a groan._

_“F-fuck…” he breathes into his Demon…_

_“Taste… Priest… but don’t swallow…”_

_“Fuck…” Chris squeezes his eyes shut, but just as quickly opens them again as he thrust once more against the boy, their cocks rub deep and hard as he stills. The painful throb in his stomach has his balls clenching up as he glares at the boy “Get… out… of… my fuckin head…” he grits out._

_Shaking his head slowly no, as his gray eyes rim red he whispers “You… get out… of mine…”_

***~***

Gasping out, he bolts upright as he clutches his hand to his chest. His lungs painfully expand as he gasps for air. Sucking in harsh and deep, his throat feels like he just swallowed an entire desert. Pushing back sweaty strands of unruly hair out of his face, he shoves the covers off his body and scoots to the edge of his bed.

Brushing his hands down his naked chest, he feels the clamminess of his sweat clinging to him. Leaning his elbows on his knees he tries to calm his breathing as he rakes his fingers through his hair to the base of his neck, slowly kneading the tension knot away. Wincing at the dull ache, he squeezes his eyes shut and feels the heat behind his eyelids growing from the impending headache.

Shaking his head, he stifles a strained giggle as he stands up and slowly pads to his bathroom, flicking on the light. The soft glow illuminates the massive bathroom, bathing it in fluorescent lightening.

Walking up to the sink, he doesn’t bother looking up as he closes his eyes and wipes the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. Turning on the cold water and grabbing a glass from the counter, he fills it up halfway and gulps it down. The ice cold liquid barely sating the heat in his parched throat as he quickly refills the glass to the rim and brings it to his lips.

Opening his eyes, the glass slips from his fingers and shatters to the floor. Gasping, he doesn’t even register the glass shards hitting his feet or the cold water spilling everywhere.

Breathing shakily through his nose, he stares at himself in the mirror, turning his head slowly to the left, then to the right.

He leans closer, thinking, hoping it’s just a play of the light.

It’s not…

 _What_ _the_ _fuck?_

Bruises along his throat…

Not just bruises, but, hands. Fingers. Fingers wrapped around his throat…

Stepping back and stumbling, he instantly brings his hand up to his mouth to stop the wave of nausea rocking him back. But, the blood on his fingertips has his knees buckling under him as he clutches the sink.

Holding himself up, he looks down at his bloodied hand, his eyes quickly dart back up to the mirror as the ache in the back of his head becomes a loud throbbing drumbeat. His temples pulsating in rhythm with the sharp pings of pain.

Lifting his hand to the back of his head, he clips back a whimper of pain as his fingers brush over the lump. Pulling his hand away, he looks down at his fingers dripping with fresh blood.

The metallic smell has him clutching the sink again as he leans his weight forward.

 _“Aaah_ … _fuck…”_ he stutters.

His heart is slamming against his chest as his skin pales and his voice is lodged in his throat. Panic setting in on him like a blast of frigid air, wrapping around him and caging him in.

That pain…

He… remembers that pain…

Taking two steps back, he closes his eyes and tries to steady his breathing. Gnawing at the inside of his cheek, he whimpers silently as the realization washes over him of what that pain was.

Gently pulling down the waistband of his boxers, he tugs them under his hips and brushes his fingertips against his hip bone.

The lightning quick sharp pain shoots up into his stomach…

His eyes flutter open as he stares at the huge hand imprint…

The purpling fingerprints wrap around from his hip bone to the meat of his ass…

He can still feel the pain of _his_ hands on him…

 _His_ hands… choking him…

Slamming him flat on his back…

 _His_ massive body looming over him…

The heat of _his_ breath against his neck…

Stumbling back, he slides down the cold polished wall. Pulling his knees up, he wraps his arms around his knees and buries his head…

And slowly begins to rock back and forth…

 _“It was_ _a_ _dream_ … _it_ _was_ _only_ _a_ _dream…”_

_“It’s not real… it’s not real…”_

Lifting his head up he gasps as the memories flood through him…

Tears pool and slide down his flushed face…

The gray of his eyes glaze over from his tears…

 _Get_ _off_ _me!_

Those thick rough hands pinning him… trapping him… fingers digging deliciously into his flesh…

The feel of the older man on top of him…

Spreading his thighs…

Pulling him down to the edge of the table…

The coiling heat around his dick as the older man rolls his hips and slides his cock against his…

A chill runs through his body as he feels the ghost of the older man’s breath against his skin… his stubble grazing his jaw…

_F-fuck…_

His voice… so close… he can still hear his voice…

The voice of his…

Priest…

**_~*~_ **

 

 

 

 

      

 

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you... 
> 
> Thank you all for reading... please don't forget to watch the trailer for Demon on my IG @sebastianstan_igfanpage
> 
> Please leave comments! I fuckin love those! 
> 
> Once again, thank you all for reading...


	3. Vatican City, Rome

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry! Sorry it's taken so long! But here it is! Chapter 3! Not going to give a summary cause you guys would probably kill me cause it'll take me another year... sorry!

Then…

Chris sits rigid and stoic. Barely moving. His chest rises and falls slowly as he wills himself to slow down his breathing. His nails slice into his palms drawing out little crescent moons as the blood slowly seeps to the surface.

Taking a deep breath, he tries to swallow down the bile rising in his throat as the beads of sweat slide down the back of his neck dripping from his short hairs making him shiver as more wetness accumulates on his collar. Its cold and clammy but, hot and stifling at the same time.

The room itself is massive. The carved stone artwork is breathtakingly beautiful, in a morbid way. Its death etched in art.

It’s said that Michelangelo himself curved every symbol of the Brotherhood into the rock walls themselves. The large scone torches of long ago have been replaced with electricity as ornate fixtures plated in gold and silver illuminate the chamber. The podium itself stands three feet off the ground, with a solid wood door and gold fittings behind the Council. A scribe sitting off to the left and to the right, sits a table with the three current advisors to the Council of Elders.

Two of the Council’s guards stand watch against the door that Chris was led in through while the remaining four guards stand stoic at each corner of the chamber.

There are no windows so the air is pumped in through a vast duct work of heating and cooling. It smells artificial, and after a while, the claustrophobia begins to set in.

He doesn’t dare move. He knows they’re watching his every movement down to the most minuscule twitch of his fingers or swipe of his tongue on his chafed lips. His shirt is sticking to his chest and back irritating his already overheated skin. The black cloak he’s wearing is itchy and the fabric is stiff adding to his discomfort.     

The inquisition has been ongoing for five days. Five days of relentless interrogations. It’s grueling and exhausting, both physically and mentally. He’s questioned nonstop for hours without a single break to stand and stretch his legs or even take a piss.

He knows what they’re doing. They’re trying to break him down. It’s how they operate.

It started the minute he landed in Rome. Thinking back now, Chris tries to stifle a laugh when in reality, there is absolutely nothing funny about his current situation.

His stomach flops as he remembers the four-blacked out SUV’s waiting idly behind the loading docks as he was escorted by a dozen Council guards. Every one of them armed and brutally dangerous.

The order was issued to bring Chris in. The other order, the one unvoiced but louder than the first, was, if Chris compromised the situation in any way, he was to be eliminated. Immediately and without a trace.

The Council of Elders reigns down their brand of justice swift and efficient. Mistakes are unacceptable and mistakes will cause a Warrior Priest his life one way or another. And, if ever it came down to it, and a Priest is captured or… worse, the orders are simple.  

Plausible deniability.

The Vatican will deny all connections to the Brotherhood of Warrior Priests.

Plausible deniability.

Because a Warrior Priest does not… exist.

Chris knows this. His entire life he’s heard rumors and whispered conversations behind locked doors between his grandfather and Father Bryan. How throughout time, the Council would hold these inquisitions underneath the halls of Saint Peter’s Basilica, several subterranean levels below.

A coldness seeps through the bones of every living being that is unfortunate to be brought down to the belly of the beast. There are only ever two outcomes if a Warrior Priest is ever brought to an inquisition. You’re either exonerated of all the charges brought against you or… you pray for a quick and swift execution.   

He doesn’t know when his last day will be. Whether he’ll be able to walk out of here or he’ll close his eyes for the last time and breathe his last breath. Every day he’s questioned about what happened in Romania. A different approach and a different set of questions. Evidence is brought in and he’s forced to recant the events all over again.

He remembers it all. The smell of fire in the monastery. The crackling of wood, the screeching of metal buckling under the heat. The groans and moans of an old decrepit building as the smoke and blistering flames consumed it taking its last bit of life.

He’s had trouble sleeping more so than before. He won’t admit it to anyone, but he has. Waking up screaming into the night, drenched in sweat and shaking, running into the bathroom just to double over and retch up what was in his stomach. But in his nightmares, it’s not the woman begging for help… it’s him. He screams and yells as he strips his throat raw, the fire licking and whipping his skin as bits and pieces of his burnt flesh slide off his bones like a hog on a spit.

God… he knows what his own burning flesh smells like.

Chris slowly looks down at the cracked rock floor, his eyes trace up a spiders-web as he follows its trail leading towards the wall. Several torches as old as time lay scattered throughout the chamber, and Chris wonders what they would look like lit with a warm flame to ease the chill in his bones.

He breathes in deeply through his nose, as he slowly releases a huff of air through his lips. He begins to contemplate if this is what a person on death row feels like. They know they’re going to die… it’s just a matter of when. It’s not the reality of their impending death that drives them mad in the end… it’s the waiting.

He lets his mind wonder and question how many others have there been? How many other Warrior Priests have been in his same position and what became of them. Were they able to leave and continue their life’s calling? Or were they left down here to rot and wither in their own hell never be heard of again?

Is that what’s going to happen to him? Is his fate be the latter?

 _Who_ _will_ _mourn_ _you_ … _Priest?_

Squeezing his eyes shut, Chris pushes _his_ voice out of his head.

_Shut up! Shut up!_

_You do what they say… aren’t you tired of it… taking orders from miserable old men…_

_Shut up! Shut the fuck up!_

_I can give you what you want… what you… need… Preot…_

He can still feel the boy’s hot breath against his lips. Those hauntingly gray eyes that have tortured his waking nights. His full pink lips as his soft angelic voice sends shivers up and down his body…

 _Tell_ _me_ … _Preot_ … _whatever_ _you_ _want_ … _it’s_ … _yours… I can make your pain… go away…_

_No…_

The solid double doors behind the podium open making Chris’s head snap up as he watches all thirteen members of the Council emerge one by one. Each of them stand behind their seats, dressed in black cloaks with the Elders symbol etched in crimson on their left breast.

The High Priest takes the gavel and brings it down as it’s thunderous sound resonates throughout the chambers walls, setting the tone for the day’s inquest.

Chris watches, enthralled even, as they all take their seats.

 _Miserable_ _old_ _men…_

Clenching his jaw, Chris cranes his neck, subtly, as he feels and hears it crack. His eyes quickly darting towards one of the advisors as he makes his way behind the High Priest.

Watching him carefully, Chris follows his every move as he leans over and whispers something to the High Priest. Nodding slowly he glances down at several sheets of papers in front of him, and with a wave of his old, brittle hand, he ushers the advisor back to his seat.

“Priest,” The High Priest’s accent is heavily laced in Italian as he looks up at Chris. His deep brown eyes giving nothing away as his fingers brush over the papers. “rise. State your name and age for the record.”

Chris stands immediately with his hands and fingers locked behind his back. “Christopher Robert Evans, thirty years of age.”

“Be seated.”

Slowly lowering himself onto the hardwood chair, it creaks under his weight as the burn in his stomach brings in a fresh wave of nausea. A dull throbbing headache begins to drum behind his eyelids bringing a newfound heat of pain. Locking his fingers together on the table, he swallows down the bitter taste in the back of his throat. Sitting still as death, he waits.

His eyes scan the twelve other members as each one of them look up towards Chris and back down to whatever lies in front of them. Something is different. Chris can tell. His heart pounds faster in his chest as yet another bead of sweat slides down the back of his neck.

“Daciana Bucur. You know this name.” The High Priest doesn’t question him. It’s a matter-of-fact statement he’s making.

“Yes.” That one word slipping from Chris’s parched throat as he nods once, slowly.

“How did you come to hear of her?”

Chris knew that this round of questioning would be brought up soon. Every night when he was escorted back to his… cell, he’s replayed the events of that night in his mind like a movie stuck on repeat. He remembers all of it. It’s seared into the darkest recesses of his mind. He won’t ever be able to forget it even if he tried to block it out. He has to assume that based on all the evidenced they’ve gathered, they must have formulated and filled in the missing blanks from his report. From the police reports to the coroner’s autopsy examination, countless photos and documented interviews with whoever was willing to talk to the local law, several months’ worth of their investigation has come down to this.

“Shall I repeat the question, Priest?” The Elder’s face is neutral, void of any emotion as he stares unwavering at Chris.

“No. I apologize, Your Eminence.” Clearing his throat, Chris dares a side glance at the glass of water, pushing aside the thought of taking a quick sip, he answers. “I was eating breakfast at a local restaurant in Petrila. A local rushed in and said that the woman, was reported missing by her husband that morning. She never made it home from the previous night. The people, they all started talking at once. It was hard for me to follow what they were saying, but, I was able to gather that they all believed that she was taken.”

“Taken? Taken by, whom?”

Shaking his head, Chris tilts his chin up as he looks at the Elders directly in their eyes, wanting them to not only see, but hear the truth in his words. “Not by whom…” his voice drops a timbre as he rolls his lips “but by… _what_. A Demon.” Chris’ answer is automatic, almost robotic in his tone. Soft murmurs break out amongst the Council as they confer to one another.

The High Priest brings his left hand up quieting the Council “Silenzio! Abbastanza!” His tone is firm and loud, met immediately by silence from everyone present.

Glancing back at Chris, he nods as if to continue. “A Demon? What, Demon?”

“Exactly what I said. The towns people. They’ve been in fear for some time, since the first local disappeared and was killed. Petrila is rooted in heavy superstition and lore. They believe they’re cursed. They believe that a Demon walks among them.” Before the High Priest can question Chris again, he continues. “But it didn’t start there.” His heart slams into his chest, the echoing pounding in his ears as he feels his blood coursing through his veins.

His skin feels red-hot as his pulse quickens and his temple throbs. Pushing up from the chair, it screeches loudly as it slides back. The sound it makes pulls at a distant memory of when Sister Mary Rose would run her nails down the chalkboard to get the children’s attention in math class.

Yanking the collar completely off his throat and tossing it callously on the table, Chris clenches his jaw as he unbuttons his cassock, taking it off and tossing it alongside the collar. Standing there in a black tight t-shirt, soaked through with sweat and black slacks, Chris palms at the sweat from the back of his neck.

Several sharp gasps flow like a wave throughout the Council. Each member looking at one another as they rattle off in Italian, looking at the High Priest for some direction.

Chris knows what he just did was a sign of utter defiance against them. Not only the Council of Elders, but to the sanctuary of the Vatican and what it means to be a Warrior Priest.

But, he doesn’t give a fuck. Not now. Because the way he sees it, he was a dead man the minute he stepped off that plane in Rome. And he’s a dead man right now. They made up their mind the minute they were informed of what happened.

He knows he’s only going to have this chance and this chance only to tell them the truth. Come what may. He’ll deal with it head on.

Waving his hands towards both sides of the Council, they’re instantly silence. “And where did it start, Priest?”

Lowering his eyes from the old man’s intense gaze, Chris swallows hard as he tries to quiet the noise in his head. Trying desperately to word what he needs to say correctly. He knows well enough, that what he says here, won’t make a goddamn difference in their decision.

“The first murder, or—“ Chris huffs to himself as he rakes his teeth over his bottom lip, the slight shake of his shoulders does not go unnoticed by the High Priest. “rather, the first time he was noticed was his kill in Kansas. The second, in Ireland. And lastly, Petrila.”

_“He?”_

Nodding his head slowly, Chris looks up at the Council. His eyes gauging their reaction, waiting for a crack in their perfect little world. “Yes—“ he breathes. _“he.”_

The string of murmurs and loud whispers roll over the Council as well as the Advisors. Each looking at one another in stunned silence and confusing. Chris knows that look. He knows what they’re all thinking.

He?

Demons are never to be addressed as he or she. To give them a voice would be to give them power. Those with names have tormented and claimed countless souls and have been around for thousands of years. No Warrior Priest has ever encountered a named Demon and lived to tell the story.

“Silenzio!” Slamming the gavel down with a resounding thud, the High Priest glares at Chris. His eyes enraged as he looks at his collar and cassock so carelessly tossed on the table.

 _“He?”_ He breathes heavily, his nostrils flaring with anger. “The Demon possessing that woman. Did it reveal its name to you?”

Shaking his head quickly in frustration, Chris clenches his fist. The stringed beads of sweat continue to slide down his back making him arch and roll his shoulders uncomfortably. It’s sticky and fucking disgusting and Christ, what he wouldn’t do for a nice cold fucking shower right about now.

Fuck it.

Chris grabs the glass of water and downs it in several large gulps, slamming it down a little more forceful than he wanted. But he doesn’t care. He’s sick of their bullshit inquisition and countless questions. He’s answered god knows how many in however many different ways and they still feel the need to poke and prod every which way they deem necessary. He’s aggravated, he’s tired and quite honestly… fucking bored. If they’re going to kill him, fuck it. Kill him already and get it over with. 

Bowing his head down, Chris grips the back of the chair. His grip tightens as the strain makes the old worn out wood creak and groan under his weight. Biting his bottom lip, he squeezes his eyes shut and slowly shakes his head as he whispers to himself, “You don’t get it…” breathing in deeply, the weight of everything comes crashing down on him. Looking up at the High Priest, his blue eyes turning to cold steel as he clenches his jaw staring at the old man.

“That woman… the demon possessing her? That’s inconsequential. That woman died a long time ago the minute that demon entered her body. She was just an empty space to be filled. I didn’t kill that woman. No matter what those reports you’ve all read say. I tried saving her.”

“You exorcised the demon?”

Shaking his head no, Chris sees the woman lying and withering on the ground as she begged him to save her. Her tears and her frantic pleads still race through his mind no matter how much he tries to push those memories away. But, he knows the truth. It was never the woman crying out for help. It was the thing inside her.

“No. She wasn’t important. She wasn’t the one…” Chris rolls and licks his chapped lips, stepping back, he looks directly in the old man’s eyes. “she wasn’t the one he was after.”

“He? He, whom?”

“No. Not he _whom_. He… _what_.”

“The Demon.” The High Priest straightens up as he glares down at Chris, shuffling the papers in front of him as if looking for some sort of clarification.

“No!” Chris barks out in frustration running a hand through his dirty hair. “You won’t read any of what really happen in your goddamn reports! I’m not talking about what was inside that woman! I’m talking about the fuckin kid that was there!”

Chris runs both hands now through his hair, pulling at the short strands as he steps away and looks wildly around. The entire Council erupts in a loud chorus of accusations and demands of discipline from the High Priest as he slams down the gavel repeatedly trying to bring order back to the hearing.

“You are walking a thin line Priest! There was no one else in the monastery with you that night but the woman! The OVP investigators did not find anyone else! There were no other bodies discovered!”

“Fuck the OVP! You’re not listening to me!” Chris rushes up to the podium, hauling himself up he grabs the High Priest by his vest holding onto him as several guards run up, guns drawn, shouting orders to stand down as arms grab at him from all sides. Letting the old man go, he shoves two away and throws a punch at the closest guard coming at him from the left, a loud grunt is forced out of the man’s mouth as Chris’ fist connects with his nose, crunching through bone and cartilage. Shoving him back, he rushes towards the Council.

“Dimettersi ora! Ritirarsi! Questo è un ordine!”

Chris feels the tight vice grip of arms wrap around his neck, an attempt to get him in a choke-hold as a sharp pain shoots up his thigh. The back of his left knee giving out as he shoved face first to the cold cement floor.

“Non cazzo muoversi!”

“Fuck you!” Chris spits out as steel-toed boot connects with his ribs as he coughs and sputters trying to get some air in his lungs. A solid knee drops down to the back of his neck as he cranes his neck, struggling to lock eyes with the High Priest. And in the corner of his eye, he catches him staring, his face completely unreadable, showing no trace of emotions, stopped dead in his tracks as the advisors and several guards clear the room and gently prod him to leave through the back door. 

“A-a fuckin boy... young... black... e-eyes...”

His head bounces off the tile as an explosion of pain tears through his skull, his vision rapidly blurring, tunneling and closing in on him, for the last thing he sees before he losses consciousnesses, is the High Priest turning his back on him.

~*~

The first thing that people say you register when you’re coming back to your senses is your hearing. That’s what brings you back. Your sense of hearing. Wakes you up slowly out of a deep slumber to whatever heaven or hell awaits you.

For Chris though, its pain. Deep, throbbing, pulsating, teeth grinding, skull shattering pain.

The back of his eyelids feel as if someone took a blowtorch to them and set them on fire. Sparks of white explosions increasing in rapid succession as he tries to sit up and gather his bearings.

“Ah… fuck…” Chris rolls over to his side as he clutches at his ribs. The phantom boot to the ribs roaring its ugly head again. “Motherfucker. Shit!” he grits out as he presses his forehead to the soft fabric beneath him.

He’s panting and gasping for air as he slowly rolls on his back, wincing quietly he huffs out a breath of air through his nostrils and slowly, painstakingly slowly begins to open his eyes.

The room is cloaked in darkness by rich red floor to ceiling length drapes. A soft glow catches his eye as Chris winces, raising up to his elbows and notices a door on the opposite side of the room. A bedroom. That’s where he is. The pillow softness of the bedding has Chris almost sighing in comfort and practically sinking back in until he realizes he has no clue how the hell he got here. Or where here is.

A murmur of voices has his head spinning towards the door as he jumps up off the bed. Rubbing the heel of his palm to his temple, Chris immediately looks around for an escape route. Opening the drapes, he’s hit with a wave of vertigo as he stares down to the bustling street below. Its dark out but the lights of the city still blaze bright. Glancing up towards the center of the city he sees St. Peters Basilica.

“What the hell?” he breathes.

“Mr. Evans…”

Chris whirls around and comes face to face with a man standing in the doorway of the bedroom. He’s sporting a full beard and long black hair pushed back into a perfectly styled ponytail. Brown eyes stay glued on him as he steps into the bedroom. Chris takes a quick assessment of the man. He’s big. Muscular. But not overly muscular in an obsessed gym fanatic type of way. But in a way that tells Chris, the man is fit and can hold his own. He looks behind and then back at the man again. His eyes quickly going over his body, looking for any signs that he’s carrying a gun.

He’s wearing black slacks, polished shoes and a navy-blue button down shirt. No rings, no pins or anything outside a black leather band watch.

“Please, Mr. Evans. This way.” The man motions for Chris to follow him out of the bedroom.

Chris stands there for half a second before he gives up any notion of fighting his way out of there. He knows he was taken from the Vatican, he just doesn’t know why. But if following this man is going to give him some answers than he might as well because standing glued to the wall isn’t doing anything for him.

Taking a deep breath, Chris pushes himself forward as he slowly steps out into a huge living area.

The entire room is lit up by soft recess lighting. Bright enough for Chris to see his surroundings clearly but not eye-jarringly bright. The coolness beneath his toes has Chris glancing down as he looks and notices rich mahogany wood flooring, polished to perfection. Off to the left is a full service bar, walnut leather bar wraps are sewn intricately into the curved lip of the bar itself. The sweet scent of almond oil permeates throughout every stitch of the hand stretched leather.

And off to the right, a beautiful black baby grand piano sits against a strikingly beautiful backdrop view of the city.

Chris swallows back the lump that’s lodged in his throat. Or at least he believes he did since the inaudible gasp couldn’t possibly have been made by him. Maybe it did since he’s staring at an entire glass wall. A floor to ceiling window as far as the eye can see. The lights of the city casting long shadows dancing and coiling along the flooring, hiding behind the darkest of cervices.

Chris breathes in deeply as his brain momentarily shuts down, his legs move him slowly towards the center of the room. A set of cream colored plush high back sofas sit facing each other with two equally large high back Queen Anne chairs. The butter soft material is accented by polished cherry wood legs and arms, and in the middle, a glazed white marble coffee table.

Behind him, Chris hears the crackle of a fire as he turns around and feels the warm comforting heat of a roaring fire caress his face. His skin tingles against the warmth as he feels his cheeks flush, relishing in the sensation. The days and nights he was held in squalor as he waited for his fate to be determined, left nothing but a deep-seated coldness embedded into his bones that he can’t get rid of. 

His fingers clench into fists at his side’s. He’s tense and he has no idea where he is or how he got here. Wherever here is.

A door swings open and Chris spins around to see the man from earlier emerge carrying a black satchel as his longs strides take him to the coffee table and places it down. He moves off to the opposite side of where Chris is standing.

Chris parts his lips as if to say something when he sees another man walk out of the room. He’s an inch or so shorter than him, a full head of jet black hair with the beginnings of gray edging the sides. Deep blue eyes, sit atop a prominent nose and a mouth that lacks any signs of laughter. A crescent size scar about half an inch long cradles his cheek below his left eye. He’s wearing a black suit jacket, white shirt, no tie and black slacks. Black shoes exquisitely polished to perfection and just as expensive.

He watches him as he leisurely walks over to the bar, pulls down two glass tumblers and drops two ice cubes in each one. Grabbing a bottle of amber colored liquor, he pours some in each glass evenly as he picks them up and casually walks up to Chris, extending his hand for him to take. 

Chris stares at it.

Stares at it as if the mystery man was handing him the secrets to the Holy Grail. He licks his lips because, damn if he doesn’t want to wet his palette with the sweet bitter taste of whatever is swirling in that glass.

“Go on. Take it. It’s not poisoned in case you were wondering. You did watch me pour it after all.” His voice is smooth and fluid and calming. The way he arches one eyebrow at Chris, hand still extended to him, lips curling into a smile. “Please…” he says.

He’s English. Chris picks that up immediately as he hangs onto every word the man says. He doesn’t want the drink now. He wants to get the hell out of here, out of Rome or wherever the hell he’s being kept.

His senses are teetering and tingling, warning bells are going off firing in his head. Chris has never been one to run from a fight, but that age old ‘Fight or Flight’ scenario is running through his head. This is wrong. This is all wrong. By all accounts he should be dead. Dead and buried in some unmarked grave between Vatican City and a little bum-fucked-town outside of Istanbul.

The man lifts the glass to Chris as he turns his back and places it on the coffee table. Taking a sip out of his glass, he sits on the couch and crosses one leg over the other as he swirls the amber liquid around. The soft clinking of the ice-cubes breaks the deafening silence in the air that hovers around them.

“It’s quite a shame actually—“ breathing in deeply, the man stares at the swirling cyclone in the center of the glass. “to let this, go to waste. You do strike me as a whiskey man.” He takes another deep swallow as he downs the last of it. “Please, Mr. Evans… have a seat.”

“A rather stand. Thank you.” Chris glares at the man. He doesn’t make a move to leave, not yet at least. He’s rooted to the floor as if he’s sprouted iron tentacles and burrowed himself the twenty or so floors below.

“I don’t think you understand. It was not a request.” The man tilts his head slightly, catching Chris out of the corner of his eye. His voice suddenly growing darker, cold. “Sit.” He repeats as that singular word slides down Chris’s back like icicles.

“I said… no.” Chris foolishly steals a sideways glance to the bigger man, just to get a fix on him.

That was his mistake.

“Fine, suit yourself.”

Chris can’t fathom what registered first. The searing hot flash of pain or the silent _‘pfftt’_ that echoed in his ears.

And like a slow-motion movie, Chris looked down at his left leg as a dark crimson patch of hot thick fluid started spreading across his thigh.

“Jesus… _fuck!_ ” Chris grabs at his thigh as his legs give out from under him and he crumbles to the floor. “ _Muthafuck!”_ Chris grits out, spittle flying from his lips as he throws his head back, fingers splayed on the wound, trying desperately to stop the bleeding.

He doesn’t try to pull away from the muscled arms snaking under his armpits, pulling him up onto his feet as he bites down a pained groan. His head is swimming in adrenaline as another wave of pain shoots up his thigh as he’s settled onto the couch.

Clutching his thigh with both hands now, blood squishing through his fingers and sweat beading on his forehead and down the back of his neck, Chris tries to sit up as he clenches down the red-hot pain slicing through him.

“You fuckin shot me!”

“Why, yes. You’re quite observant.” The man moves fluidly off the couch as he pours  himself another shot. The dark amber liquid splashing over the ice-cubes, its aromatic scent wafting through the air. Picking it up, he tips it towards Chris as he slowly takes a drink, his steel blues burning into Chris.

“You’re fuckin crazy.” Chris mutters out as he trembles through another wave of pain. His fingers gripping tightly on his thigh as the warm blood continues to seep out, trying desperately to put pressure on it.

“No. I’m not. I’m direct.” His voice is cold as ice yet, eerily frightening in its calmness. He moves over to one of the Queen Anne Chairs, standing directly in front of it, staring at Chris. “I don’t waste time and I don’t tolerate my time being wasted. I told you to sit, you refused, I shot you. You see a pattern here Mr. Evans? Answer yes or answer no and answer rather quickly or I will shoot you in your other thigh.”

“Yes.” Chris spits out. He’s starting to get lightheaded from the blood loss. A newfound pulsating ache begins to settle on his temples, the burning pain reaching from the base of his neck and grinding into his skull.

“This is my colleague, Mr. Smith.” The man motions to the man hoovering behind Chris.

“Let me guess,” Chris grunts out as he tries to sit up, his back leaning still uncomfortably on the armrest. One bloody hand splayed out on the cream-colored fabric, fingers digging in finding purchase, as he pulls himself up. “you’re… Mrs. Smith.” Chris knows he should be scared, knows whoever this man is, he’s not fucking around, he’s going to kill him. But fuck, that was too easy.

The man huffs out, as he shakes his head once. “I’ll let you have that one. But the next smart remark, I’ll have Mr. Smith slice your throat. Are we clear?”

Chris nods slowly. His eyes glued to the man.

The man inclines his head towards Chris, waiting.

“Yes.”

“Very well then. Let us begin, seeing that—“ the man looks down at his watch, clocking the time. “you don’t have much time. You were shot five minutes ago, and, you are bleeding out like a slaughtered pig on that very expensive couch. Right now, your body is redirecting all blood flow to your major arteries in hopes that it will keep you alive. However, that will only last for several moments. Your organs will begin to shut down, depriving much needed oxygen to your brain, where… you will ultimately lose consciousness and… die. Now,” the man sits down and takes a deep breath as he continues. “I will ask you a series of questions and you will answer them truthfully. If you don’t, I’ll shoot you again. One in the head one in the heart. Your heart will cease to beat as it flutters rapidly in shock, but, your brain… your brain will continue to receive information for another six seconds. Six seconds that you will lay there and realize… you are dead. Not dying, but dead. And there is absolutely nothing you can do about the outcome. Are you with me so far Mr. Evans? Do I have your attention now?”

Chris nods quickly but then answers him. “Yes.”

“Good. So now here’s the best part.”

“The best part?” Chris swallows at that. “And here I thought that was the best part.”

“Oh, on the contrary, it gets better. You see, Mr. Smith here, he’ll wrap you up in that tarp directly behind you. Go on, take a look.”

Chris doesn’t bother, he knows it’s there. He’s not going to give this smug bastard the satisfaction of looking.

“There are three vehicles waiting downstairs. Two blacked out SUV’s and one blacked out van. I will board the first SUV and continue on to my next appointment, whereas, Mr. Smith, will deposit your body in the back of the van and drive off with the second SUV following close behind. From here, he will drive approximately seventy-four point two miles north to an undisclosed location where another colleague of mine will be waiting.” The man pulls a silver-plated cigarette case out from inside his suit jacket and a matching lighter. Flipping it open, he slips one through his lips and lights it up, taking a long drawn out drag. The tip burning bright and angry red as gray smoke floats through the air like a grim haze of death slowly churning in the room.

Fuck, Chris licks his lips as he briefly forgets the fact that he’s dying when all he wants is a cigarette. Even the shot of whiskey can’t compare to the sweet taste of nicotine right now.

“This colleague of mine, you see… he has a specific skill set. He’s a butcher.”

At that word, Chris’s throat closes off and he begins to cough when suddenly a hand reaches out in front of him holding the whiskey offering. Taking it, Chris downs it so fast he barely notices the sting of the burn. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he doesn’t even look up to know who gave it to him. The lingering scent of cigarette smoke gives him the clue.

“He’s from a long line of butchers, his family. Never did care for the machinery to cut and slice through different textures of meat and bone. Can you believe he still has his great-great grandfather’s knives? They’re old and barbaric looking if you ask me, but…” he takes another long drag and blows it out slowly. “they do the job, nonetheless. He even has the rare novaculite sharpening stones for the blades. Has to special order them from, of all places, a little quarry in… Arkansas. Can you imagine that? Arkansas is known for two things. Novaculite sharpening stones and backwoods inbred hillbillies.”

Sucking in his teeth, he crushes his cigarette out on the ashtray and leans his elbows on his knees. His eyes scanning Chris’s pale face. With his voice, low and focused on Chris, he furrows his eyebrows as if it pains him for what he is about to say. “Here’s what will happen. Mr. Smith with lay your body out on a metal slab for him and leave. That is the extent of his involvement. From there, my associate, using his grandfather’s knives will begin to disassemble your body. It’s an art for him and he’ll do it quite meticulously. He has his orders,” the man nods once at Chris, pausing as he presses his lips into a hard line before continuing. “so, he will begin with cutting your ears off. Your nose and lips will follow. Then he’ll remove your tongue and both your eyes. Both your wrists and feet will be removed as so will each one of your fingers and toes. Then he’ll really begin cutting and slicing. Below the knees and at the crook of your elbows tend to be the hardest but he is nothing if not persistent. Your head… he’ll leave for last because he’ll have to remove your teeth first. And then, and only then will he decapitate you. But not before he drills holes in your head to let pieces of brain matter and droplets of blood spill out.” Sitting back, the man crosses his legs as his finger trails an invisible circle on the well-oiled armrest.

“Your fingers and your teeth, and, what remains of your head… he’ll toss them in a vat of acid. All possible identifiable remains of you will be erased. The rest of you will then be placed in countless plastic bags and what’s left will be scattered all throughout eastern Europe. No one will find you. No one will ever know what happened to you. Not Anthony, not Scarlett, not Jeremy, not Father Bryan. Not even your dear sweet neighbor… Ms. Roberta. Do I make myself clear? Do I still have your attention now, Mr. Evans?”

Chris blanches as the numbness that was slowly spreading throughout his body completely engulfs him now. His hearts pounding in his chest as huffs of air escape his lip.

Chris always knew he would die in some sick and twisted way. Except he always thought it would be in the hands of some demon. He never really needed to make his peace with that notion because, hell, you live by the sword, you die by the sword. He never wanted a funeral. The tears and the farewells, all the bullshit sentiments that don’t mean a damn thing now that you’re dead. All he wanted was to be buried next to his grandfather. But that little piece of want he kept tucked away for himself, and now… it doesn’t look like that’s going to happen.

“Why are you telling me this?” Chris meets the man’s expressionless glare equally.

“I want you to know what will happen to you. You should consider it a gift. Those who meet their death unexpectedly never get to have this bit of insight. Can you imagine that? Possessing that kind of knowledge. The ability to tell someone how they will die.”

At that Chris loses it. He barks out a bitter laugh at the man as he throws his head back, running his blood-soaked fingers through his hair, tugging at the strands until he feels the pain of it ripping at his scalp. He fills his lungs with a deep breath of air as he slowly exhales.

“Insight?” Chris arches his eyebrows at him and gnaws at his bottom lip. “Insight, that’s what you’re calling it? Look, either way, you and I both know I’m a dead man. Here now or tomorrow. So, don’t fuckin bother giving me the horror movie details. You want something from me or else you wouldn’t have pulled me from the rejects of the walking dead.”

The man chuckles as he leans back, crossing his legs he glances down at the blood still seeping from Chris’s thigh. Shifting his eyes to the man standing stoic behind Chris, he motions to the bedroom. Chris watches as the man disappears to immediately return with a black leather bag. Kneeling next to Chris, he drops the bag on the floor and pulls out a syringe with clear fluid.

Chris shuffles up as his hand darts out and grabs the man’s wrist.

“Relax, Mr. Evans. It’s only morphine.” Jutting his chin out towards his wound he shrugs his shoulders. “To numb the pain. Unless you prefer to bleed out like a pig. And if that’s the case then I can have Mr. Smith here toss you in the bathtub, where, you can bleed out until your hearts content. Or… he can remove the bullet and patch you up. On one condition that is. You tell me what I need to know. You lie to me, I’ll shoot you. Agreed?”

Nodding his head slowly, Chris lets go of the man’s wrist as he winces against the sudden sting from the needle in his bicep. Instant relief washes over him as the drug works its way through his system. He begins to feel lightheaded as his heartbeat slows down from its erratic pounding in his chest to a calmed state. His head lulls to the back of the cushion, sinking in softly as he faintly feels the man cut his jeans.

Big hands stretch his skin as he feels another pinch and then a warmth and coolness at the same time. A numbness spreading up and down his leg.

_Pressure_

There’s a pull and pressure kneading at his thigh as he feels no pain but just a dullness as if his leg fell asleep. He can hear the clanking of metal on metal but he doesn’t bother looking.

Christ, he really needs a cigarette.

“C-can… I have a cigarette?” Chris murmurs. His voice is so low he thinks the words were said in thought until he feels a cigarette being pushed in-between his lips. The catch of the lighter sparking to life has him forcing his eyes open, not realizing he had closed them.

Inhaling deeply, Chris pulls on the cigarette as he clamps it between his fingers. Sighing deeply, his lungs expand as his chest rises and falls settling into a pattern. With every inhale of nicotine his body relaxes a little bit more and more. The low buzzing of the morphine high working every single muscle and pain in his body away and replacing it with that oh-so-fuckin-good-floaty feeling.

“Who are you?” Chris ask, forcing his tongue to move, forcing his lips to form words. Raising his head, he looks down at his thigh just in time to catch Mr. Smith wrapping his leg with gauze, clipping the end and tucking it under the dressing.

The man is big, but silent as he gathers up his tools and some rags he used to clean up Chris’s blood. Standing, he nods at the other man and disappears back into the other room leaving the two men alone.

“I, am someone you owe answers to. Now. Mr. Evans, what were you doing in Romania? Specifically, Jiet.”

Chris takes another pull of the cigarette as he closes his eyes, fuck, he’s so tired. The softness of the couch pulls at him, beckoning him to fall into a deep slumber. Maybe, maybe this is all a nightmare. Some twisted, fucked up nightmare and as soon as he wakes up he’ll be in his apartment in Brooklyn passed out on a drunken binge.

“Mr. Evans, you’re tired. I can see that. And, I will let you sleep, but first I need answers.” The man’s voice is soothing almost. Like a parent cooing their baby. Willing a response in any form they can get. But, in the back of his drug-induced state, Chris knows there’s nothing soothing and calming about the man sitting across from him.

“Jiet. What did you find in Jiet?”

Licking his chaffed lips, he feels the cigarette leave his fingers as he fights to keep his eyes open. The back of his eyelids are hot and heavy as a cold shiver runs through his body, his teeth clatter and he trembles as a bitter cold settles in his bones.

“T-the woman… possessed. I-I tried… saving h-her.” Chris teeth clatter as he curls in on himself, trying to fight off the biting tremors.

“Yes. Yes you did. You tried saving her, but, for all your efforts… you failed and she died. But this is not about the woman Mr. Evans. She was dead long before you tried saving her. There was someone else there. Who else was there?”

Swallowing hard, Chris burrows deeper into the couch. He squeezes his eyes shut and rolls his lips as he shakes his head no. They didn’t believe him, the old bastards. They didn’t believe him when he tried telling them.

“It’s alright, you can tell me. There was someone else there. Who was it? Tell me, I will believe you.”

Shaking his head, Chris pulls at every memory he has of… him. The boy with raven eyes. Eyes as black as sin and dark as night. The boy that’s haunted his every waking moment and has become the ghost in his dreams. He knows he’s real, he’s felt his body under him, withering under him, crying out in delicious pain… felt his lips against his. The heat of his breath against his neck as his melodic voice kept him in a trance.

“A boy…” Chris says without thinking twice. The words spilling out before he can stop them.

“A boy?” The man questions as he pulls a blanket over Chris shivering body. “Tell me, Christopher…” his tone taking on the change like a father talking to his son. “what did this… boy look like? How old, would you say he was? Twenty? Twenty-five?”

“No—“ Chris pulls the blanket up to his neck, burrowing impossibly deeper. His teeth clattering, his bones rattling inside his skin trying to gain some warmth. “Y-young-er.”

“Younger? Younger than twenty?”

“Mhm…” Nodding, Chris keeps his eyes close for fear if he opens them, the swimming sensation in his head might make him puke.

“What did he say to you?”

“No—I don’t know…”

“Try, try to remember what he said to you. What did he do? What was he doing there?” The man is staring at Chris, eyes unwavering as if he can pull the thoughts out of Chris himself. “What did he say to you?”

Chris clenches his jaw as a jolt of pain twists in his gut as he doubles over and cries out, “Aaaah! Fuck!” Huffing out through his mouth, Chris stares up at the man. “The fuck did you give me!?”

“Just a friendly reminder Christopher. I can still kill you at any time.” His voice dips low as the sheer coldness in his words mimic his threat. “Again… what… did… he… say… to… you?”

Pushing himself up, Chris pushes against the pain, staring at him, he leans in as close to him as he can get as the man leans into Chris as well. “He said…”

“Yes,” the man whispers, urging Chris on.

“He… said…”

Looking up, his eyes lock onto Chris’s glazed over baby blues. “What? What did he say?” he demands.

“He said… fuck… you.” Chris breaks into a rumble of laughter, deep and resonating throughout the room as he shakes his head and rolls his lips. Pushing himself into a sitting position, wincing at the ache and pull in his thigh, he sits face to face with the stranger. His face pulls into a tight and strained grimace. Every ounce of energy he has left is being drained by the weight of the drugs in his system as he fights against them. Shucking off the blanket, he cocks his head to the left as he looks the man up and down.

“You think you’re the first person who’s threatened to kill me in imaginative ways? Hm? Well you’re not. So please, don’t fuckin flatter yourself.” Chris picks a piece of lint off his suit jacket and flicks it in the air in front of his face. “Doesn’t suit you. So, you and Mr. Smith over there and your basic Jeffrey Dahmer… can go fuck yourselves.”

There’s a long silent pause from the man, Chris faintly hears him sigh as he leans back, back rim-rod straight as he looks away from Chris and shrugs his shoulders. “That’s a shame. And here I thought we were getting along so well.”

Before Chris can even get a word in, he feels a sharp sting burning into the side of his neck. Gasping out his hands clutch at his throat, scratching at the flesh as the air is sucked out of his lungs. The room instantly begins to spin as he falls back and his vision narrows down into a black abyss. His lungs spasm painfully, pounding aggressively against his rib-cage as Chris’s entire body bows tight and begins to convulse rapidly. His head cranes to the left as he begins to froth and foam from the mouth. The hot sensation of his urine saturating his boxers and down his inner thighs strangely enough grounds him to know that he’s still here, he’s still alive, if just for a few moments more.

Coughing up a spittle of foam, he gasps loudly as he feels his very last breath leave his body…

***~***

Now…

He sits in the last corner booth in the back. Worn red polyester seats with springs threatening to jut out and cotton stuffing sliding out of the rips. He’s been here so many times over. Always late at night. Always in the same booth. Always ordering the same thing. Coffee, black and a slice of apple pie.

The spoon clinking and clanking against the chipped mug is the only thing that keeps him focused. Taking a scolding hot sip, the sharp bitterness weighs on his tongue.

Glancing down at his watch, he reads it for the millionth time. Ten fifty-three. Looking up, his eyes are glued to the entrance of the EZ Pawn shop. Taking one last sip, he stands, digging in his pocket he pulls out a ten and tosses it on the table. Nodding at the waitress as he walks by, he pushes the door open as the bells jingle above.

The late night June heat is stifling in New York City this time of year. The humidity only climbing as the mist of it clings to his shirt, sticking to his chest as he jogs across the street. The overhead neon light of the pawn shop buzzes as he quickly looks around and pushes the door open and walks inside.

He’s been in here before, and every time he comes he’s assaulted with the same old smell of worked-over oil in whatever worn out leather was sold for a couple of dollars.

The shop hasn’t changed since the last time he stepped through that door. The place is littered with workmen tools, flat screen televisions, dvd players along one side and on the wall directly to his right, hanging from cords attached to the wall are bicycles, skateboards and scooters. Off in the middle are racks and racks of dvd’s and old VHS tapes. Who the fuck even watches VHS tapes anymore?

Computers and laptops are behind enclosed cases on the side wall along with cellphones, IPods, MP3’s, camera’s and tablets of every kind. And towards the rear of the store, behind a massive cabinet under lock and key, are the guns. The ammo, the proprietor keeps in the back.

The place is stocked and stacked in wall to wall clutter. People come in here with whatever meager belongings they have or they stole to trade in for whatever cash they can get their hands on. Whether it’s for rent, food, whores, or a quick fix, namely the drug of their choice.

A pawn shop owner isn’t your confident or your friend… he’s your dealer. However, and whichever way you see it. That’s what he is. He’s not there to give you advice or steer you in the right direction on your purchases or your trade-ins. He’s there to low-ball you and take your shit and give you the least amount of money for your valuables. He’s a fuckin con-artist. Period.

They’re fuckin scum and he can’t stand them.

But, they have their uses… just like this one.

Leaning over the glass case, he looks over the array of knives as he hears the heavy plastic flaps separating the counter from the back-storage room. The shuffling of work boots skid against the dingy linoleum floor as a heavy thud slams down on the counter top.

“Sup there laddy? It’s a wee bit late, m’gittin ready t’close. How ‘bout you swing on by Monday mornin’? I open meh doors at ten o’clock.” The man’s deep Irish accent carries throughout the space as he goes about taping the box shut without looking up at the man perched at the end of the counter.

“Closed?” the man questions. “Didn’t look closed to me.”

The sound of the man’s voice has the shop owner’s hands freezing just above the box, tape hoovering above as his hand begins to tremble.

“No…” the shop owner whispers. Face still and drawn as he forces the lump down his throat.

“Now… now. C’mon _Cassidy_.” The man drawls out the shop owners name. “Is that how you greet an old friend?”

Inhaling deeply, he finally looks over to the man. His brows pulled tight and his lips squeezing even tighter together. Shaking his head slowly, he slumps his shoulders and breathes, “Goddammit, Preacher.”

Chris taps his fingertip to the glass as he stands and looks over at the tall gangly man. “Language Cass… language.” Opening his arms in front of him, Chris walks up and peers inside the half-taped box. “And how many times have I told you, I’m not a fuckin Preacher?”

“I know dat.” Cassidy snorts out. “And how many times have I asked yuh, what kind of Priest r’yuh?” Puffing out his chest, the Irishman looks at Chris and squares his jaw, trying his hardest to look intimidating, but, knowingly, failing miserably. “Whatever yur here for… I don want any part of it. I don want to get involved and I don want to hear ‘bout it. And also… I don want to get involved.”

Chris arches his eyebrow, side eyeing him as he shrugs his shoulders. “You just said you don’t want to get involved. Twice.”

“Dat’s just in case yuh dint hear me dah first time.”

Slamming the box shut, the Irishman starts taping the flaps together with vigor and determination. Brows knitted together as his whole body tenses with trepidation, his fingers grip the sides as he does a piss poor job of sealing the box.

“Like I said before Preacher, whatever yur here for, it’s not meh business n’ I want no part of it.” Grabbing the box, he tosses it on the floor carelessly as he grabs his keys from his pocket and walks around the counter passing Chris. “Now, if yuh would be so kind as to… go, I haf’ta lock up. It was _not_ … nice seeing yuh Preacher, n’ please… don come again.” Yanking the door open, Cassidy looks up at Chris as he gnaws at his bottom lip. Worrying the skin red as his eyes dart back and forth from Chris to the door. The temperature having dropped some as a cool breeze wafts through the shop stirring up the smell of old clothes and dust mites.

Holding the door open, Cassidy fidgets as he watches Chris cross the space in several long strides as he swings the door out of the lanky man’s grip and closes it shut. Snatching the keys out of the Irishman’s hand, he locks the door.

“Y’know… you’re being really rude here. I thought you’d be a little bit more hospitable to me. It’s been what? Almost a year?” Chris watches as the brown-haired man stalks off. His tall lean build rushing past him as he scratches at his light stubble, his deep brown eyes focused towards the back of the shop, muttering to himself as he shoves his way through the thick plastic flaps separating the shop from the warehouse.

Chris follows him as he shoves the flaps aside and walks into a room almost five times the size of the shop out front. There’s rows along the walls of metal shelves as high as the ceiling, stuffed and tagged with tons of junk. There’s a huge metal desk pushed up into a corner of the furthest wall, scattered with papers and files and an outdated desk top computer. A bag of fast food, greasy and soaking through a brown paper sits on top of one of half a dozen filing cabinets off to the side never making it to the overflowing trash bin against the wall. Several large overhead fans slowly circle as the fluorescent lights illuminate and buzz the vast space casting a soft glow.

The air is stifling and muggy making his shirt cling to his chest again, and, if he were claustrophobic, he’d probably try to claw at his skin right now to get out of there.

“See your housekeeping hasn’t improved… much.” Chris takes in everything all at once, including the exit at the very back of the room.

Huffing out, Cassidy leans against the desk, crossing his legs and crossing his arms over his chest. He picks nervously at the frayed ends of his cut-off jean jacket turned vest, rolling his eyes he glares at him.

“If meh housekeepin is botherin yah so much, yah can just leave. Please.” Cassidy waves his hand towards the exit sign. “Don’ let the door hit’cha… where dah good lawd split’cha I always say.”

Chris rolls his neck and sighs. Fingers pulling and slapping the tags off the merchandise as he makes his way closer to the man. “I’m not leaving. You see, you owe me. Or did you forget?”

“Oh bloody hell! How can I forget. Every chance yah git… yah remind meh. But,” he waves one long lanky finger at Chris “I’ve kept meh nose clean. Keep mehself outta trouble, got mehself a good business here, even been payin’ meh taxes Preacher! Yah see, m’don wat’cha said. Layin low. Besides… m’surprised yah here. Heard some Priest took a beatin in Romania. Heard he ran into one nasty clem.”

Chris narrows his eyes at him as he clenches his jaw. The fact is the word spread back to the states quicker than he thought. Not so much as how it was spread but who was listening rather. That’s the part that has Chris on alert.

“Some even goin as far as sayin… he was dead. Couple of ol’ mogs were prayin it was yu. Can yuh believe dat? Fuckin prayin. Shit—“ he breathes in long and shallow as he exhales a little too fast. “never thought I’d live to see hell freeze over on dat one, aye.” Cassidy rubs his jaw as he scratches the back of his neck, eyes darting away from Chris’s glare. “B-but, I din’ believe ‘em.” He adds quietly.

“What’s a matter Cass… did you mourn me?” Chris snarky response has the Irishman looking up, offended almost.

Before he can say anything, Chris cuts him off, “Thought you said you were keeping your nose clean? How’d you hear?”

Nodding quickly, he scratches his head. The raking of his blunt nails on his scalp fills the quiet as the air around the man tenses. Chris eyes level on him, not wavering, watching his every move down to the most minuscule motion of his fingers twitching against his jeans.

“Cassidy…”

“Look Preacher…” Cassidy shoves off the desk and begins to rummage through his jacket as he fishes out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Popping one between his lips he fidgets with the lighter, willing it to light up the cigarette as he fumbles with it and it slips from his fingers.

Snatching it from mid-air, Chris twists it back and forth between his fingers as he flicks the wick and it sparks to life. The flame blazing a reddish orange hue as Chris continues to move it back and forth.

“Cassidy…” Chris’s tone growing darker as his eyes grow colder staring at the flame. The warning in his voice sends chills down the man’s spine just like it’s done every single time since the day they met three years ago.

“Dammit Preacher! I’ve got a good thing goin here! I ain’t causin yer any problems.”

Chris extends the lighter out to him, holding it as he watches him sigh and step forward tipping his cigarette as he lights it up. Pulling out his own pack, Chris does the same. Glancing up at Cassidy, Chris raises his eyebrows for him to continue.

Taking the hint, Cassidy settles against his desk. “I, just heard from a couplah low-levelers, dat, well, somethin bad went down in Romania. Was over at Hartley’s. Yah know dah joint, over on Clinton Hill?”

Chris nods slowly, knowing the place too well as he inhales the sweet nicotine, encouraging Cassidy to go on.

“Yeah, well… like I said, heard some sorry bastards sayin dat some Priest got killed by a possessor cross dah way. Said they din know who it was but, they sure as fuck hoped it was yuh. And, to be honest, it got meh thinkin back to dah last time I seen yah. Only cause it’s been awhile, yah know.”

Chris stares at him as he watches the man flinch within himself. Cassidy has a tendency of doing that around Chris. His nerves get the best of him. He can’t lie to him even if he tried, and lord knows he’s tried. Hell, Chris pegged him the day they met, knew what he was instantly, but, there was something about the Irishman that made him let him go. It’s times like these that he steers away from their teachings and their laws.

Things aren’t always black or white how they interpret it and how they perceive it to be. It’s a giant shit storm of gray and Chris’s hands are soaked red with blood right smacked in the fucking middle and they could give a damn less the number of casualties left in its wake.

Collateral damage.

He never understood what his grandfather had meant by that when he was younger.

But he sure as hell knows now.

“Preacher? Are… are yah okay? Yah kinda checked out for a minute there.”

Cassidy chuckles nervously as he pulls hard on the burning cigarette. Hazel eyes darting up and down the Priest body, trying to get a fix on his emotions. He’s looking like a lost and scared puppy at the same time waiting for Chris to react or talk or something. Anything better than that blank stare and ice cold look in his eyes.

Before Cassidy gets a chance to say anything, Chris digs in his back pocket and pulls out a folded piece of paper. Laying it flat on the desk, he stares at it just like he’s done a million times over. Every detail, every stroke of his pencil, every line every crease pulled from the recesses of his memories have laced their way down from his fingers to the tip of the charcoal.

And fuck if this is only one of hundreds. Hundreds of sketches of…

“Oh… oh bloody fuck…”

Chris whirls around to see Cassidy shudder and turn pale white as he slowly backs up, lifting his gaze from the desk. Raising his hands, palms up as he shakes his head slowly back and forth whispering over and over “Oh no no no no no no… fuck no.”

Snatching the sketch off the table, Chris yanks him by the arm, the Irishman easily flopping back and forth as if his bones suddenly became liquified. The sickening crackling sound of crushing bone under Chris’s grip has Cassidy seeing red as pain shoots up his arm.

Shoving the sketch in his face, Chris snarls out. “Do you know him?”

Cassidy can’t even put two words together as he barely registers the sound of his own bones being crushed. Shaking his head back and forth, he gasps out a strangled no.

“Don’t lie to me! You fuckin know him?!”

Cassidy’s eyes finally snap up and meet the crazed look on Chris’s face. Stuttering a strew of inaudible words as he tries to pull free from Chris, he’s suddenly slammed hard against the metal shelves. The shelving teetering as the merchandise shake and rattle, some even falling from the shelves and dropping dangerously close to the pair.

“Who the fuck is he Cassidy?! I swear to fuckin God—“ Chris clenches his jaw so hard he swears he hears his teeth crack. “if you don’t tell me… I’ll slit your fuckin throat right here right now!”

“Alright! Alright!” The Irishman screams out, his yell vibrates and bounces off the massive space echoing back to his ears. His hazel eyes dart back and forth but land back to the seething man in front of him. His chest painfully expanding as he gulps down a breath of air. The burn in his throat scratching the inside raw, he can practically taste his own blood as he swallows back the metallic bitterness of it.

Letting him go, Chris takes only two steps back as his heartbeat refuses to slow its rapid thrumming. He can feel the vein in his temple throbbing a steady beat as a heat rushes over him from the back of his neck to the tip of his ears.

“Speak.”

Straightening out his shirt collar, Cassidy tries to move pass Chris, quickly giving that idea up, he squeezes out from around him as he shakes his head.

“Christ Almighty Preacher, y’know, yah got some anger issues yah need to work out there. Yah need a hobby.” Walking up to a small fridge behind his desk, he pulls out two bottles of beer, placing one on the opposite side he pops his open and takes several long swallows. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand he drops the beer cap. “May I suggest, crochetin, or maybe some cookin lessons? I hear cookin is quite calming. I’ve got some really good cook—“ before Cassidy can finish his sentence, Chris is on him and slamming him back first onto the desk, beer flying out of his hand as a flash of white hot pain explodes in the back of his head.

Time ceases as the cold tip of steel presses up into the Irishman’s jaw, his breath caught and garbled in his throat as he slowly opens his eyes to the feral man above him.

“P—preacher…”

Tightening the grip on the handle, Chris clenches his finger over the trigger. The spring giving way easily as he pushes the barrel of the gun harder, digging and cutting into Cassidy’s chin. One lone bead of sweat slides down Chris’s temple as he zeroes in on nothing but the man in front of him who isn’t a man at all.

“Shut… the… fuck… up.”

The coldness in his voice has Cassidy instantly cowering even with nowhere to run. He knows better than to push him.

“Now.” Chris says quietly, voice deathly low and controlled. “If you don’t tell me what I want to know in the next five seconds, I’m going to pull the trigger… and blow your fuckin brains all over your desk. And then… m’gonna go to your house, drag your wife out of your bed, shove her into the bathtub and put a bullet in her head. Paint that pretty new porcelain  red.”

A strangled scream lodges in Cassidy’s throat as he stares wide-eyed at the man hovering above him. The look of sheer terror that spreads across his face from those words has the Irishman instantly quivering in his skin because no matter what, and no matter how long he’s known the man who’s currently shoving a gun under his jaw; the one thing he does know about him is… he does exactly what he says.

“P-preacher… p-please…”

“Five…”

“Yah don u-understand… please!”

“Four…”

Chris cocks his head to the right as he adjusts his finger on the trigger, the sound his callused palm makes on the handle is the only sound that can be heard between the two men.

“I can’t!”

“Three…”

Chris calls out the numbers in an almost trance like state. An automatic response to Cassidy’s pleading as they fall on deaf ears.

“Two…”

His finger moves and he begins to squeeze as the coil slowly begins to retract back and readies to snap. The distinctive sound of the coil retracting has Cassidy snapping out of his haze as he screams out.

“He’s a demon! A pure-blood demon!” Tears finally breaking through and streaking down his cheeks as his body trembles at his own admission. Fear of the ramifications be damned.

Loosening his grip on the handle, Chris’ eyes narrow as the Irishman’s words seep into his bones like liquid nitrogen, making his insides feel like he was dipped in dry ice.

“What?” Chris whispers as he watches Cassidy screw his eyes shut, his hand coming up to cover his face as he shakes his head slowly back and forth. Tears still sliding through his fingers and dripping off his face.

“A d-demon…” he stutters through broken sobs. “He’s a demon.”

“You know him.” It’s not a question Chris is asking but, affirmation.

Chris pulls his hand back slowly, moving his gun away from under Cassidy’s jaw, but doesn’t move away too much, just giving the man a bit of space. He doesn’t dare move, not until Chris yanks him up by the arm, pulling him up off the desk as he takes several steps away and tucks the gun in his back.

“Talk.”

Huffing out, Cassidy straightens his jacket as he shakes his head and motions to the cabinet behind him. “Yah mind? Or yah gonna blow meh head off?” he snarks out.

“If you don’t start talking… I will.” Chris shrugs.

Snorting, Cassidy moves over to cabinet and swings it open pulling out a half-consumed bottle of whiskey and two shot glasses, pouring a generous amount in both, he slides one over towards Chris, “Cheers, mate.” Gulping it down, he pours himself another shot and swallows that one as well. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand he motions at Chris’s still untouched one.

“Drink up Preacher, we can finish this bottle, n dah other one as well. Gonna be a long night.”

Snatching the shot, Chris swallows it down in an instant and without missing a beat he pours another one and gulps it down as well. His temples are throbbing as he pulls a chair over and slowly settles himself down. Squeezing his eyes shut, he rubs his middle finger against the pulsing vein. The steady beat pounds in his ears as he tries to push down the migraine threatening to surface.

He slowly lets his head fall as the weight of the last three months come crashing down on him.

Countless nights Chris has woken up drenched in sweat, stumbling out of his bed, barely making it as he crumbles to the floor heaving his guts out into the toilet from a nightmare. But they’re not nightmares, they’re his memories. Memories of all the shit that’s happened to him since his goddamn ego wouldn’t let go of the case Father Bryan dangled in front of him like a carrot on a stick.

All for what? To be wanted for murder—to have no other choice but to go on the run for his life? But that wasn’t enough, he knew sooner or later it was all going to catch up with him. He knew it the minute he saw the blacked-out Audi parked right in front of his building.

They weren’t going to snatch him out of his bed in the middle of the night, they wouldn’t break into his home and threaten him at gunpoint. No, they’re deadly and efficient, not stupid and careless.

It was quite simple, one man in a very expensive fitted Italian suit stood outside the Audi, one hand pressed to his side the other hand behind his back, Chris knew it without a second thought; his fingers were curled around a gun. He didn’t bother to run, didn’t even bother to glance behind him. He felt them before he saw them, the two men bracketing him on either side as they led him into the car. He knew where he was being taken and he also knew it was useless to fight them.

“Preacher?”

“The boy,” he breathes quietly, his thoughts forcing him now back to the present as his hands grip the back of the chair, making it crack and strain under his clutch. “who is he? Please, Cass… I-I need to know.” Chris can barely keep his voice leveled as he stares up at the Irishman.

Swiping the bottle off the desk, Cassidy swallows some down as he passes it to Chris, nudging him to take it as he breathes in deeply, his own thoughts drifting to another time and place.

“I ever tell yeh, I read dah bible?” Cassidy raises his eyebrows and grins as he rubs his chin, scratching at the stubble as the scrap against his nails sound like sandpaper sliding over a worn-out surface. “I was in Tuscaloosa, nineteen… thirty-four, was a hand on a ranch for this ol’man. He was a mean o’bastard, had meh work for meh room n’board. Paid meh forty-two cents a week. Can yeh believe dat shit? Forty-two fuckin’ cents. He was a cheap bastard on top of it all. I dint complain though, was what yah did back then. It was hard work but, dah weekends were mine. Partied it up in dah local waterin hole, n’ afterwards, find meh a pretty little thing to dip meh wick… perks of dah flesh with every new skin-coat.” The corner of his mouth curls into a smirk as wiggles his eyebrows.

Pulling out a cigarette, Cassidy lights it up as he tosses it on his desk. Pulling hard, he inhales as he continues his story through a haze of smoke. “Anyway—“ he waves his gangly fingers around, “down dah road from his ranch was a church tent, yeh know, those non-denomination ones? So, dah bastard always had meh drive him to Sunday service, o’fucker couldn’t drive so I’d stay outside, smokin n’ listenin to dah horse-shit, ‘cept they called it dah good lord’s sermon. I dint care, still called it as I saw it. Bullshit. Well, this man was up on this bitty little crate just “ _praise_ _Jesus_ _this_ _n’_ _praise_ _Jesus_ _dat_ _n’_ _dah_ _sinners_ _will_ _burn_ _in_ _hell_ _hallelujah! Yur saved! Amen!”_ The Irishman shakes his head in frustration as he takes another swig of whiskey, wrapping his lips around the mouth, gulping more down as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, pointing the bottle at Chris.

“Yur good book tells yah ‘bout dah war in heaven, how some angels got tired of all dah rules and blah blah blah, so they defected. Fell to earth following… _him_. Fast forward a couplah thousand years n’ now yeh got burnin’ n’ talkin’ bushes, dah red sea partin’, n’ a boat stuffed with elephants n’ fuckin panda bears runnin away from a fuckin flood.” Laughing hard, Cassidy scratches the back of his head, muttering under his breath, “Fuckin Christ almighty, a flood?”

“What? And you don’t believe it?”

“Hell no. Not for one minute.”

“So, what was the point?” Chris folds his arms across his chest, knowing that Cassidy’s ramblings will get him to his point sooner than later if he doesn’t interrupt him.

“Dammit Preacher!” Cassidy runs a hand through his hair as he paces back and forth. His brows creasing as he pulls on his cigarette again. “Yeh can’t honestly tell meh yah believe everything dat was written in it, do yah?”

“No. I don’t. The fact is the bible was written by man, not… God. But it’s called faith. And if people believe in it and have faith than…” Chris pauses as he gnaws the skin raw on his bottom lip, “what I believe doesn’t fuckin matter.” Chris looks Cassidy square in the eyes, doesn’t waver as the Irishman outright gawks at him in utter disbelief.

Nodding, Cassidy slumps on the metal roll chair behind his desk, his fingers thrumming on the cold metal. “Every time I would read it, I’d have an argument with mehself. Tryin to dispute it against what I know.”

“And?”

“Yeh can’t win an argument when yeh only see one side.” Cassidy says quietly, almost to himself.

Chris can’t argue with that, it’s the truth and he knows it. He’s lives it every day. He sees it in the cases he takes. He sees it in the way Father Bryan looks at him, the _“don’t_ _ask_ _questions_ _Christopher_ , _just_ _do what you were born to do_.” The shit is embedded into his blood like his own DNA. He breathes it, he lives it and in the end… is all he knows.

“Dat boy, however yeh came across him, yeh need to forget ‘bout him. Can yeh just listen to meh this one time Preacher?”

Shaking his head, Chris presses his lips into a hard line, his baby blues glazing over as his fingers curl into a fist. “No. Cassidy. Who is he?” Chris’s voice is flat and ice cold, his eyes locking onto the Irishman as he slowly pushes off the chair, his entire body strung tight ready to snap at any moment.

The look in his eyes and the way his body moves around the desk has Cassidy lifting his hands up in defeat and his shoulders slumping as he crushes his cigarette out. The red-hot ashes floating in the air between the two men like an invisible barrier.

Rolling his lips, Cassidy breathes in deeply and slowly exhales. His chest tightening and loosening at the same time as he gets a nicotine head rush all at once. “He’s not like meh.” He says as he wipes the sweat of his brow running his hand down his face. “I wasn’t lyin when I said he was dah real thing. A demon. There are several kinds yeh know.”

Chris just stares at him and stays quiet. He’s never had this conversation with him before, only seeking him out when he needed inside information on one thing or another when it had to do with any of the cases he was on.

“There are dah possessors. Dah ones dat need a host body.” Cassidy gets up and walks around the desk to get some distance between himself and Chris as he lights up another cigarette. Taking a quick pull, he talks through the exhale.

“But, they are not dah first. There’s others.”

“Others?”

Nodding, Cassidy rubs his sweaty palm against his dingy jeans. “Yeah, they can’t come here. And… to be honest… thank God for dat.” The man chuckles nervously as his eyes dart from Chris to the floor.

“What do you mean they can’t come here?” Chris cocks his head to the right as he watches the Irishman fidget and pace back and forth. “Cass?” he pushes.

“They just can’t.”

Chris goes to push again but thinks twice about it. He’ll leave it alone for now. If Cassidy says they can’t, then, he’ll revisit this part of their conversation on a later date. Right now, this isn’t what he’s looking for.   

“Okay,” he concedes and nods once. “They can’t. The possessors I know how they work, so let’s skip them shall we? The boy. What is he? You said he’s the real thing, a demon.”

“Y-yeh, dat, dat’s what I said. He is.”

“The body. That’s him. Correct?”

“Yeh,” Cassidy nods fast just a fast as the words coming spilling out of his mouth. “it’s him. In all his eighteen-year-old glory.”

The gasp gets caught in his throat as Chris’s eyes go wide. His chest tightens and his stomach drops as he remembers the sound of his voice. Almost musical and hypnotic and so… young.

“Eighteen…” he breathes, only slightly wincing at his own admission.

“Yeh, yeh. Dat there… dat’s all him. He’s not a possessor, Preacher. Listen, please, yeh need to listen to me, I don know how, again, yeh came across him, but yeh gotta forget ‘bout ‘im, trust meh. Please!”

Cassidy’s pleas are frantic now as he looks behind him and grabs the bottle and downs a fifth of it before slamming it down on the hard metal, small spurts of the amber liquid sloshing over the lip and sliding down the neck.

“I didn’t ask for your advice.” Chris eyes him coldly as he snatches the bottle away before the Irishman tries to grab it again. “Why are you so scared of him? What is it you’re not telling me?”

“Fuckin hell! Dah kid is fuckin psychotic! He’ll smile in yur face n’ slit yur throat all while playing Pokeman Go! Don’ pull on dat thread, Preacher! Let ‘im fuckin go!” Cassidy is full on shouting now, shaking, as the veins in his neck jump and pulsate, his face flushed red while beads of sweat drip down his brow.

Chris is on him in less than half a second as he slams him down on the desk, fists bunched up with the fabric of his jean vest and his shirt as he picks him up and slams him back down. Consumed by his rage and fueled by the need to know he grits out, “I can’t! I fuckin can’t!”

“He belongs to Eric! If yah go after ‘im Eric will kill yah!”

And it’s like a bucket of ice water was thrown on Chris as he slowly let’s go of the man muttering incoherently and shaking under him. He watches Cassidy slump to the floor and lean against the desk sighing deeply. His long legs jut out in front of him as he rubs the heels of his palms roughly into his eyes.

Taking several steps back, Chris watches, detached almost as the Irishman bows his head and breathes in a shuttered breath. He’s saying something under his breath, into his chest, something that Chris can’t quite catch because the only thing he hears is that…

 _he_ _belongs_ _to_ _Eric._

“…yah don want to go after ‘im Preacher, Eric… he’ll kill yah for sure. Dah kid, he’s his property.”

“W-wait, what?” Holding up his hands, Cassidy continues rambling oblivious to the fact that Chris has slid down to the floor next to him, leaning back against one of the metal filing cabinets.

Taking a deep breath, Chris reaches out and grabs his shoulder tightly, bringing the man’s words to a screeching halt.  

“Cass… I’m going to ask you three questions, and, those three questions you’re going to answer them truthfully. I want to know everything you know. And don’t, don’t fuckin lie to me. Do you understand me?” Chris’s eyes have turned tiny slits as he stares at the trembling man in front of him. Nodding, waiting for confirmation he stares at the Irishman unblinking.

“Y-yes.”

“The boy… what’s his name? Where can I find him? And who the fuck is Eric?”

“I-I don know his name.” Shaking his head, Cassidy pats his chest then his front pants pockets, “Dammit, where are meh cigarettes?”

Chris passes him one from his own pack as he tosses him his lighter as well.

Sparking it up with shaky hands, he mumbles out a thank you as he inhales long and deep. The newfound rush of nicotine spurs him on as he blows the red ash away.

“None of us knew his name. I mean, I suppose some did, but, we just... just called ‘im, kid. Dah kid. I’m sure he has a name but, we were never privy to it. Dint really want to know anyways. Dah less I knew dah better.” Cassidy chuckles again nervously, eyes darting quickly back and forth from Chris, fear radiating off him in quivering waves as he pulls hard on the cigarette. The long bow of ashes droop but don’t tip over is almost comical.

“Forty-three.”

“What?”

“Forty… three.” The Irishman repeats the words again, looking over at the man across from him confused as if he should know what those words mean.

“What the hell is forty-three Cassidy? Is that supposed to mean something to me?” Chris snaps at him, tension rolling through his body.

Holding his hands up, the Irishman huffs “Easy there laddy… it’s a club, down by dah Brooklyn docks. Dah warehouse district off pier seventeen. It don have a number on it, but, dat’s dah name of dah club. Dah kid, yah find ‘im there, sometimes. He… works there. It’s a… _special_ … kind of club, Preacher.” Cassidy cranes his neck a bit as he rolls the word ‘special’ on his tongue, arching his eyebrow to the man. “It caters to dah green—“ Cassidy makes a motion with his thumb sliding back and forth between both his index and middle fingers. “n’ its… _clients_ are… _unique_.”

The way he says clients and unique has Chris’s hair standing on end. There’s too much noise in his head, too many questions and he’s tumbling, falling over his own jumbled thoughts.

The kid. He’s real. And now he has a place where he can find him. Find him and… kill him.

“Eric,” The name stings his tongue as he says it out loud, “you said the kid belongs to him. What did you mean?”

Thumping his head back on the cool metal, the Irishman huffs out a long breath as he crushes the remainder of the cigarette out. Nodding, he turns hazel eyes unto the man in front of him.

“Eric Northman. He’s a demon. But, not like meh. Not like any of dah others. Not like dah kid either. Remember what I said about dah different, levels?”

Nodding, Chris, bites back a new slew of questions he wants answered. Instead, he just nods and coaxes the Irishman to go on.

“Yeh, okay, uhm… yah need to forget ‘bout what yah learned n’ what yah hunt. Eric, he’s not no—“ Cassidy waves his hand around his face, lips pressed into a hard line. The look on his face is both pleading and urgent. “ugly, hideous bloated yellowed skinned sharp toothed boogeyman. He’s a different breed. Trust me when I tell yah, yah don want to tangle with ‘im.”

“Cass—“ before Chris can get the rest of his words out, he’s interrupted by the Irishman jumping up from the spot he was rooted in as he begins to blurt out erratically, hands flying everywhere.

“No! Yah listen. Yah git to listen to meh. Eric, he’s a fuckin monster. He’s a certifiable fuckin monster. He don care ‘bout nothin or nobody. He’s a ruthless bastard n’ he’s got his hands wrapped in all kinds of shit.” Exasperated, Cassidy runs a hand through his hair and pulls hard, clenching down on his jaw hard.

Standing, Chris glares at him, “What the fuck does he have to do with Forty-three?”

“Ain’t yah listenin’? Eric fuckin owns Forty-three! Owns dah whole fuckin lot! And he owns dah fuckin kid too! So whatever yur thinkin’, fuckin forget ‘bout it. Dat place is swarming with his demons, security, his fuckin henchmen, down to dah goddamn bartenders. Dah only ones dat aren’t demons, are dah entertainment.”

 _Owns_ _the_ _kid…_

Cassidy’s words swarm and dig in Chris’s head. Owns the kid? How does he own him? The hell does he mean? The place is swarming with demons? Pushing away from those questions for now, Chris’s focus turns to the club.

“What kind of club is it?” he asks, eyes darting off to the side, feeling a flash of heat engulfing his body.

“It’s a… gentlemen club.”

“A gentlemen club? What kind… of _gentlemen_ … club?” Chris’s voice drops a pitch as he watches the Irishman fidget, his hands ringing the hem of his shirt.

“It’s _ah_ … _ah…_ gentlemen club where, dah taste is quite… singular.”

A small gasp slips out of Chris’s lips as the words Cassidy hurled at him earlier suddenly begin to snap into place.

_He belongs to Eric…_

_He sometimes works there…_

“They pay money to…” his last word gets lodged in his throat as he sees gray eyes obscuring his vision. Gray eyes and full pink wet lips ghosting over his heated skin. Closing his eyes, Chris shakes the thoughts out of his head, pushing them away. He’s not stupid, he knows these types of clubs exist. Both for men and women. They’re not publicized but, it isn’t hard to find one if that’s your thing.

“Yah pay for it. Yah name it.” His voice cuts straight through his thoughts, pulling him back into the room. “Whatever yur pleasure, Preacher… or, whatever yur sin.” Grabbing the bottle, Cassidy downs another gulp, whiskey dribbling down his chin, he breathes, “They can pull on yur wanker, blow yah, n’… dependin on dah price tag,” he shrugs, “yah can bend them over or have them ride yur cock so goddamn hard, yah fuckin go blind from comin’.”

Cassidy shakes his head once rolling his lips. “Look, I’ve seen some heavy shit go down there,” Cassidy turns around, shoulders heaving and sighing deeply, voice low as he mindlessly shuffles some papers around his desk. “let it go. Dah kid, he’s not fuckin worth it, man. Ain’t worth it if yah end up dead. Whatever hard-on yah got for him—“ the Irishman looks up with pleading eyes, giving up what he was trying to find. “go beat it off somewhere with a sweet piece of pussy.”

Shrugging his shoulders ignoring those last words, Chris inhales deeply letting go a long breath. “So… Forty-three? Right? Okay, thanks for the info Cass.” Turning on his heel, Chris takes two steps towards the exit before the Irishman is whirling him around by his arm.

“Where dah fuck yah going!?”

Glaring at the hand clutching his bicep, Chris turns his icy glare on the Irishman. “Take your hand off me Cassidy, before I rip it off.”

Quickly letting him go as if his skin suddenly burned red hot, Cassidy holds his hands up, but keeps his eyes locked on Chris. “Yah can’t be serious? C’mon!”

“Oh… I’m every bit serious.”

Bowing his head, Cassidy whispers, “Yur fuckin crazy, Preacher. Yah can’t expect to just waltz in there. Eric, he’ll have his men gut yah alive. It don work like dat.”

“Then how does it work? C’mon Cass. Fuckin shit, how do I get in? What do I have to do to get in there?”

Pacing back and forth, Cassidy taps his chest as he flattens his palms over it. “Bloody hell, yah got a cigarette?”

“These things are gonna kill you, y’know.” Chris hands him his pack and lighter as the Irishman grabs them and chuckles.

“Yeh, well…” lighting up a cigarette he inhales long and hard, blowing the gray smoke he glances at Chris. “Told yah, it’s a specific clientele he caters to.”

Frustrated, Chris folds his arms across his chest, staring at him. Dropping his gaze to the dingy tile below, his lips part slightly as he inhales a shaky breath. Ice cold blue immediately take in the gangly man several feet away from him.

“You could get me in.”  

“Now now…” Cassidy eyebrows shoot right up as he looks at everything but the man in front of him.

Nodding, Chris slowly begins to circle him, eyes wide and almost wild looking and increasingly growing a deep darker blue. “Yeah… yeah—“ he whispers almost to himself as if he was looking for an a approval, “you _can_ get me in.”

“Look…” Cassidy points at Chris and follows his footsteps as he continues to circle him like stalked prey. “now… just hold on a fuckin second will yah? Last, I checked, yah weren’t part of a big mafia crime family or some ruthless drug cartel or dealt with human trafficking for sex trade or…” Cassidy presses his lips together and huffs out a hard breath through his nose as he waves his hands in the air in front of him, twisting his fingers, “yah were some kingpin drug dealer exporting n’ importing millions n’ millions of dollars in cocaine! Or, matter-of-fact… did yah decide to become an illegal arms dealer since dah last time I saw yah? Cause dat’s pretty much dah only way yah gonna git in. I told yah… what part of specific clientele dint yah understand?” Before Chris can open his mouth, the Irishman cuts him off. “Oh, n’ if yah worried ‘bout dah law, dint. Dat fucker Eric, he owns dah fuckin pigs n’ dah bunch of those crooked politicians. Fuckin wankers!” He spits out as he shakes his head and glances up at Chris, breathing in almost in defeat as he rakes his nails through his scalp. He tells him the last bit he wished he could’ve spared the man. The man despite everything, who gave him a chance.

“Yeh… yeh,” he nods, “I can get yah in. I designed dah security protocol for Eric. Dah entire club is on surveillance all dah time. No one gits in n’ out of there without high level access. Key codes n’ top clearance fingerprint scans only. Not to mention retinal scans as well. Unique identifiers. Impenetrable. And… dat’s only dah beginning.”

Inhaling deeply, Chris rakes his teeth along his bottom lip. He’s extremely calm, considering what he’s about to do. He’s come too far, too far to stop now. He’s close. He’s so close to… him. There’s no way he’s turning back now. And maybe Cassidy is right, maybe he should let it go, let him go. But he can’t. Fuck he can’t.

Hours have bled into days and nights into weeks tumbling and spiraling out of control to where he is now, months later and his resolve is set in stone and etched in iron. He hasn’t been able to sleep right, eat right and his mind has been nothing but a clouded jumbled fuck storm of a mess since Romania. It’s consumed his fuckin life and he needs to know why. Why this boy? What was it that he was after?

Chris knows demons. He knows what they seek and crave, what they desire most. What they want. They’re thoughts are singular, not biased or second guessed.

Infiltrate, claim, possess, destroy.

But this… boy, this is something in all his thirty-years, he’s never seen anything like him. He’s slithered under Chris’s skin and wrapped around him like a venomous snake that’s slowly sunk its fangs into his flesh and slowly, continuously suckles the life out of him, leaving him with nothing but his poisonous kiss in return.

Walking past Cassidy, Chris goes to his desk, grabbing a piece of paper he scribbles something down. Turning around he strides up to the Irishman and shoves the paper in his hand as he takes his lighter and cigarettes back and begins to make his way towards the exit.

“What’s this?” Cassidy calls out after him as he looks down at the address written on the paper.

“Be there, Sunday at four. And Cass…” turning on his heel, he lights up his own cigarette, “don’t be fucking late.” Turning back around he pushes through the heavy plastic flaps as he walks out into the store front. Unlocking the door, he’s hit with the stifling heat once again as he faintly hears the Irishman yell out behind him.

“Aye! Just so yah know, Preacher! I like to git wined n’ dined before I git fucked!”

**_~*~_ **

His shoes send hollow thuds resonating off the dark polished cherry wood finish floorboards as he makes his way up the second flight of stairs, the urgency in his steps have the men behind him on edge and on high alert.

Making a left at the top of the stairs, the men stay in sync with him barely two steps directly behind. The wall scones emit just the right amount of soft lighting that normally he wouldn’t even have a second thought about something so insignificant, but, tonight, it’s enough to grate under his skin as he grinds his teeth.

The sound of his phone vibrating in his callused hand echoes loudly down the long corridor. Glancing down at the screen, he instantly swipes and answers the call.

“Grillo.” He snaps. Voice hoarse and rough from years of cigarette smoke and whiskey shots. His dark brown eyes narrow as he scans the length of the hall, passing one closed door on the right, he comes up to one of the two doors on the left. _“Sonofabitch,”_ he spits out, instantly quieting the voice at the other end of the call. Waving the men on either side of the solid mahogany door off to the sides, they immediately stand like sentinel guards as the other men hang back. “No. Stay there. Keep watch and place men around the perimeter. Call me if anything changes.”

Disconnecting the call, the dark-haired man balls his fists against his thighs, anger igniting his blood like a spark setting it on fire. “Motherfucker.” He mutters under his breath.

Opening the door without knocking, he walks in as the door is closed behind him by one of the guards. The soft music of Etta James playing in the background is a stark contrast to the coldness that’s settled over the man the minute he entered… _his_ … office.

Swallowing, he parts his lips to speak when he hears a soft…

_“Ssshhh…”_

Clenching his jaw, he swallows what he was about to say, instead, he buys himself several moments and glances around the huge expanse of space stretched out in front of him.

A large dark cherry wood desk sits at the head of the room with two black leather chairs facing it. The desk itself is adorned only by one Tiffany lamp made of pure crystal with a single pull chord, a leather blotter in the middle and one gold and silver encased fine point Montblanc Meisterstuck. Off to the right, a black leather couch with two matching leather chairs separate a sitting area with a glass coffee table in the middle. Two beautifully intricately carved bookshelves run from floor to ceiling with a rollaway ladder sit on both sides of the entry door.

First editions, rare manuscripts, and several small pieces of priceless artwork are placed strategically within the shelves. To the untrained eye, they’d look just like ordinary books and notebooks with a couple of small statutes and pottery serving as book-ends, however, to a collector with a keen eye, he would be in the presence of a fortune worth over twenty million dollars.

His dark brown eyes span the floor to ceiling glass wall off to the left. To those on the lower level looking up, they would be met with and entire wall of shining black glass. A void so black, you’d feel as if it were swallowing you whole.

But here, in _his_ office… it’s a window for his watchtower.

His hands slide languidly in his pants pockets. His shoulders pull up as he lets out a soft sigh, standing still, he stares down into the club.

His club.

He hums quietly to the smooth sounds emanating all around him as his eyes grow dark and the air shifts as the room grows colder.

“Do you hear her?” He asks. Voice smooth like satin and cold as death. The soft light coming from the lamp on his desk bounces off his dark blond hair as his five-day old stubble paints a darker silhouette of him in the shadows.

“She sings of pain filled with tears, but, she would rather go blind then to see him kiss another girl.” He says. “Why would she do that?”

“Sir…”

Pulling his hands out of his pocket, he holds one finger up to the other man, once again, silencing him.

“Listen.” He hisses. The storm churning in his deep blues has him glaring out into the floor below, tapping one long lean finger against the glass, the _tap…_ _tap…_ _tap…_ echoes loudly in the other man’s ears making him feel the vibration down into the floorboards.

“Why inflict that sort of pain on yourself when you can inflict it on others…”

“Sir… I—”

Cutting him off with a flick of his wrist, he doesn’t face him when he asks the next question, warranting an immediate response.

“Where. Is. _He_?”

“We’ve run into a _slight_ problem. He failed to meet at the extraction point, Sir. I have men already at Silas’s. He isn’t there.” The dark-haired man presses his lips into a hard line, teeth grinding and grating against his jaw. His voice is heavy and raw, like gravel crunching under tires.

“I see.” Breathing in deeply, his chest expands as he furrows his brow, creased and stitched together as in deep thought. His voice low and emotionless as he questions the man. “What of the excavation site? The men?”

Looking away, the other man shakes his head once and rolls his lips as his nostrils flare. “Dead. All of them. As you ordered.” Walking up to the man, he stands off to his side as his eyes linger on to the floor below.

“Find him. Bring him to me.”

The coldness in the air begins to close in on the other man as he swallows hard, his rough, callused hands balling into tight fists as he inhales sharply.

Nodding, he turns on his heels quickly, crossing the room in long strides he reaches for the door when he hears his voice from behind.

“Frank, now there are two things roaming the streets of St. Petersburg that belong to me, and I want them back.”

Gritting his jaw and grinding his teeth, the man nods once, cold determination set in his eyes.

“Yes, Sir.”

~*~

The chill in the air has him drawing up his hoodie from under his long jacket as a rush of wind creeps up his spine. Breathing in deeply, the frigid air fills his lungs as he finds himself casually making his way through the dark deserted park at an ungodly hour. His black leather lace up boots pad softly on the cold asphalt, a fresh dusting of snow quietly crunching under his footsteps echoing eerily into the darkness as he swings his arm upwards, feeling the weight of the steel as the ice-cold tip sways gently on his shoulder…

 


	4. "You're not serious? You can't be serious! You're fuckin serious!"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaaaaannnnnnnd TAH DAH! Here's another chapter for you!

“Are you fuckin crazy!”

Rolling his eyes, Chris sits back, bringing the bottle to his lips as the ice-cold liquid coats his parched throat bringing him a much-needed relief.

The smell of beef wafting through the air as it sizzles on the grill has his stomach growling, but the constant bickering between his friends, no, his family pushes his hunger to the back burner.

The late afternoon stifling heat has him rubbing the back of his neck as sweat beads dribble down his back, leaving a trail of wetness that’s strangely cooling against his overheated skin.

A cooling breeze sends the tree leaves swaying and whistling as Steel Panther’s “Don’t stop believin” plays in the background.  

“Do you have to yell?” Setting down the bowl of macaroni salad on the table, she tucks a strand of dirty blond hair behind her ear as she takes a long swig of her beer.

“Oh! I’m sorry.” The dark-skinned man does his best expression of a mock surprise. “Did I disturb your neighbors?” He shifts on his heels, spinning as he looks around. “I didn’t. Because you don’t have any!”

“Just cause our closest neighbors are ten miles away, doesn’t mean we don’t have any. And besides, your yelling… can wake the fuckin dead, man.” The sandy blond man smirks, arching an eyebrow as he gently flips a thick cut of beef.

“Seriously, Mackie… you’re gonna give yourself a fuckin coronary.” Chris shakes his head as he wipes away the non-existent potato chip crumbs on the table.

“Or a heart attack.” Sandy blond shrugs as he begins to plate several grilled ears of corn on the cob.

“A heart attack? Really? Well if that fuckin happens—” Mackie shoots a look to the woman, “there’s a doctor right here.”

“Not that kind of doctor, sweetie.” Cocking her head, she grins up at him.

“Seriously? I’m about to have an aneurism right now and you can’t help me, Scar?”

“Last time I checked, you didn’t have a uterus and you weren’t in labor. So, unless you suddenly grew a womb and you’re carrying around a seven-pound baby… like I said… can’t help you, babe.”

“Oh, it’s like that now?” Swiping a beer out of the freezer behind him he mumbles, “That’s cold girl. That’s cold.”

“That’s my wife. Hot and cold, scary and sexy as all hell. That’s why I married you, babe.” Sandy blond winks at her from his perch behind the grill and chuckles, throaty and raspy.

“Whatever,” She leans back and crosses her toned legs as she swirls her beer. “You married me because I fucked your brains out on our first date.”

“Well, shit yeah. You married a jarhead babe, not a dumbass.” Sandy blond laughs loud as he lifts his own beer up for a mock toast.

“Can we please get back to the topic of conversation here, guys?” Exasperated, Mackie scrapes his fingers through his goatee, running his hand up the back of his neck, scratching his head, sighing. “Just wondering if you two have anything to say about what this crazy bastard wants to do? No? Nothing? You guys don’t have shit to say about it?” Mackie glares at all of them, his deep chocolate eyes land on all three as they all feel the shift in the air around them.

“What do you want us to say?” Jeremy walks away from grill, pulling off his ‘Kiss my ass’ apron, tossing it on the table as he glances over a Chris, sitting quiet and pensive.

“Something! Anything!” Mackie’s voice rises another octave as he folds his arms across his chest. Petulant, glaring at Chris who hasn’t even made a move or said a word.

“Anthony, we-“ Scarlett’s words get cut off before she can say anymore.

“You all forgot, right?! Because from where I stand, it sure as fuck seems that way.”

“No, Anthony. We didn’t forget.” Her clipped tone sets the wheels turning once again on a conversation that they’ve all had numerous times.

Chris breathes in deeply as he keeps his head down, trying desperately to reign back his frustration at where this conversation is headed. He zones out as the voices of his best friends start intertwining with one another, only to pick up snippets here and there.

Like a ghost weaving in and out of a reality that he can only watch.

“—you saw how he was!”

“—we know the risks…”

“—can’t change any of it. It’s what he does—" 

“—he could’ve died!”

And like a pressurized valve, his anger snaps and cracks like a whip as he slams down the beer and growls out. “Enough!”

The silence is instant, deathly quiet as all three of them turn to face him. Blank expressions waiting, as if the very air around them is crackling with tension, like a snake coiling and ready to strike.

“You’re talking about me as if I’m not fuckin here.” Chris stands up, gripping the back of the chair, he shoves it hard against the table. Clenching his jaw, he grits out. “You think I don’t know I could’ve died? Do you have any idea, how much I didn’t want to involve you?” He looks up, waves of ice run through his veins as a coldness buries itself in his baby blues. “Any of you?”

Loosening up the grip on the chair, he feels the bones in his fingers stiff and rigid as he pushes away. Shaking his head, he breathes in deeply, “I’m thirty fuckin years old. And not once, have I ever had to make that call. Not once. I know I could’ve died. But I didn’t. I’m here and I’m fuckin breathing,” Standing up straight, Chris lets his eyes roam to each of them, watching them as they watch him. His mind whirling with anger and frustration, knowing what he’s about to say next is just going to add more fuel to the already blazing fire. “and with or without you, I’m going to finish what I started.”

Lowering his head, Mackie shoves his hands in his pants pockets, shoulders losing some of their stiffness, as he softly sighs. Two words slipping from his lips, barely picked up by the soft breeze billowing through the tress. “The library.”

Chris opens his mouth to say something but gets quickly cut off by Mackie’s hand, stopping him before he can get anything out.

“I was at the library.” He says, nodding, not looking at Chris or the others. His deep chocolate eyes not focusing on anything in particular, just glancing blindly around. “I was going over some case files, research for a case I had. Some class action lawsuit.” Leaning up against the tree they set the table under for some shade, he absently begins to work the dirt under his sneaker as if looking for some strength to help him say the words that need to be spoken.

“I was jotting down notes like crazy. Reference cases won and lost. Possible appeal hearings. Jurisdiction preferences that could’ve swayed the outcome one way or another. Just, anything I could get my hands on.” Taking a long gulp from his beer, he almost finishes it, before he continues. “I was so focused that, I guess I didn’t notice, but, I don’t know. I must’ve felt it first, if… that makes any sense? Then the sound was what caught my attention. It wasn’t like a normal buzzing or vibrate, it has a distinctive vibration.” Mackie turns those dark eyes on his friend now, a newfound focus burning into them. “You should know, you’re the one that set them all up like that, right?”

Pushing forward, Mackie refuses to let Chris say anything until he’s said what he needs to say. All the emotions that have been bottled and capped since Germany, finally coming to ahead and goddammit if he isn’t going to say what the others are thinking but haven’t voiced anything because, ‘It’s Chris. It’s what he does’ bullshit is tiring and can only go so far.

Chris doesn’t. He stays silent even as the sounds around him become nothing but background noise, his own breathing hums quietly in his ears. Taking several steps back, he nods his head once, giving Mackie the space to get things off his chest.

Mackie’s never told him about that day, what it was like for him. He’s never asked. Hell, he barely remembers how he got back to the states if it wasn’t for Scarlett filling in the blanks.  So, Chris doesn’t push. He does what they both tend to do in those situations, move on, neither of them saying what needs to be said.  

“It was the burner phone.” He rolls his neck to the side, trying to work out a kink he’s had since God knows when. “All these goddamn years, all these goddamn years and that shit’s never gone off. Never. Not once.” He looks down, his sneaker digging deeper into the soft dirt as he watches a line of army ants trudge up towards a mound. “You know what the fucked-up part about it was? Not like the whole thing isn’t fucked up, right?” Mackie’s voice pitches high and Chris knows his best friend is struggling with his emotions.

“It must’ve been going off for a while, cause, when I finally dug it out of my bag… hell, I expected that shit to explode in my hand or burst into flames or something. Fuck… I don’t know, but it didn’t.” Mackie looks up at Chris now, eyes burning with anger, but, burning with sadness as well. Overwhelming sadness. “It should’ve. It fuckin should’ve because I know what the fuck that phone means when it buzzes. We all know what the fuck it means.”

Mackie’s voice takes on a slight tremor as he pushes off the tree and glares down at Chris. Walking up to the table he slams his beer down hard, making the table rattle. “It means your fuckin dead, Chris. Dead! It just so happens that we,” he throws his hand out towards Scarlett and Jeremy, their faces frozen and bodies rigid in place. Barely a breath between them, “were gifted with the wonderful task, of flying clear cross the fuckin world because you decided to die in Leipzeg, Germany you selfish prick!”

Not missing a beat, Chris pushes right back. “What do you want me to say?! Huh?! The fuck do you want me to say?! What?! That I’m sorry? Yeah. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I almost died and dragged you and Scar and Jeremy into my shit!”

Chris stares at his friend as he steals several moments to himself, hands on his hips, he looks down at the ground, reigning in his anger and frustration, trying his best to quiet the raging storm flowing through his veins. “This is what I do,” he breathes, looking up at all three of them. “and one day… I know… I’m going to die doing a job.”

“And you’re okay with that?” Mackie glowers at Chris, feet carrying him two steps closer to him, stopping short as his emotions flare. “Cause I’m not okay with that Chris!”

“We’ve known each other since we were five.” Deep ice blue eyes, burn holes into the other man as exasperation and anger swirl together in Chris’s tone. “You know how I’ve grown up. In this!” Chris throws his hands out in front of him, temper flaring as the pounding in his skull has him clenching his jaw hard. “You’ve all known. This is all I know, this is how I was raised my whole goddamn life. What did you think? Tell me? Huh? What would you have had me do? Fuckin enlighten me with your many words of wisdom, _Anthony_.” Chris smirks at the other man, his name sliding off his lips, condescending in every single way intended.

“Because you know everything… don’cha.” Flicking his wrist at him, Chris licks his lips as he narrows his eyes at him, cold blue slits glaring into big warm chocolate orbs. “God fuckin forbid any one of us don’t say _‘please’_ or _‘thank_ _you’_ or pay our fuckin taxes on time or help the little o’lady cross the street or hold the fuckin door for the person behind you, because,” Chris turns on his heels and throws his hands up in the air as his shouts into the hot afternoon still air, “Mister fuckin perfect over here,” Chris waves his hand off at Mackie as he turns around and glares back at him, “won’t let you live that shit down. So _please_ ,” Chris’s words drip with sarcasm and bitterness as he sees the hurt and anger in his best friends deep brown eyes, “your _Highness_. Tell me, what would you have me do to make _your_ life that much easier?”

The air swirls and stills around them almost instantaneously as the slow drowning sounds of nature become nothing more than white noise in the background. Scarlett and Jeremy long forgotten as they too melt and blur into their surroundings.

Mackie, strides right up to Chris. Nose flaring, lips stretched out into a hardened line as he shoves his finger, poking Chris in his sternum as he stares at him. Eyes glistening wet with unshed tears fighting to be freed, body tense and rigid and like a vale slowly slipping away, all fight dissipates from him, shoulders slumping forward he shakes his head slowly and whispers… “Don’t… just… don’t fuckin die.”

Chris sighs heavily, shaking his head slowly back and forth, he knows where this is coming from, all the late-night conversations with Mackie, Scarlett and Jeremy right here, by the fire pit, several empty bottles of beers scattered all over and each one nursing a fresh one in their hand. Each of his friends avoiding the inevitable elephant in the room. The “what ifs”. Chris easily brushed off any heading they made towards those scenarios. Not wanting to hear any of it or talk about it because he knew it wouldn’t do any of them any good. They’d all just end up in an all-out screaming match further fueled by their emotions stemmed from their combined fear of the inevitable.

“Ant, I… I’m not trying too di—"

“One almost killed you in Romania.” Scarlett’s words are spoken with such bite, that they all turn to look at her. Staring up at Chris, she holds his gaze as she presses her lips together. A fleeting look of exhaustion passes her soft green eyes, and just as quickly, the fierceness is back like a lioness ready to strike. “And yet, here you are. You want us to help you track down the very thing that almost… killed you.”

“Scar, I…”

“OH! Hello! M’not late for dah party, am I? _Mmm_ … wat’s dat I smell? I’m starving!” Pulling out a chair the stranger grabs for the bowl of potato salad and dumps a heaping spoonful on a plate, adding another spoonful of macaroni salad, several spears of pickles, a handful of chips, two beef hotdogs, one burger hold the cheese.

Taking a big bite, the stranger moans around a mouthful of beef as he stuffs several chips as well. Standing up quickly, he grabs a beer out of the ice bucket, twists the top off and takes a deep swallow. Ice cold liquid dribbling down his chin as he wipes it away with the back of his hand. Forking the potato salad, he shovels it in his mouth and chases it down with another gulp of beer. A loud obnoxious groan rattles from his chewing as he finally looks up at everyone, dumbfounded and staring.

“Who the fuck is this guy?” Mackie glares at the stranger as he crosses his arms against his chest.

Chris strides up to the table, grabs a plate and begins loading it with everything laid out in front of him and topping it all with a medium rare steak. Following in the stranger’s lead, he digs out an ice-cold beer, flipping the cap off he chugs almost half of it down.

“Oh, _uhm_ … yeah,” he exhales heavily as he licks his lips, “this is Cassidy. He’s going to help me find him. Help us. He’s a demon by the way. Hey Jer, can you pass the A1 sauce?”

_**~*~** _

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


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